The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe Golden Circle

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe Golden CircleThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: The Golden CircleAuthor: Roy J. SnellRelease date: November 7, 2017 [eBook #55907]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Stephen Hutcheson and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GOLDEN CIRCLE ***

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: The Golden CircleAuthor: Roy J. SnellRelease date: November 7, 2017 [eBook #55907]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Stephen Hutcheson and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

Title: The Golden Circle

Author: Roy J. Snell

Release date: November 7, 2017 [eBook #55907]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Stephen Hutcheson and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GOLDEN CIRCLE ***

A Mystery Story for Girls

ByROY J. SNELL

Author’s Logo

The Reilly & Lee Co.Chicago

“Friday, the thirteenth! This is my luck-e-e day!”

Petite Jeanne half sang these words as she sat bolt upright in bed and switched on the light.

“You’ll be entirely out of luck if you don’t lie right down and go to sleep!” Florence Huyler, her pal, exclaimed, making a significant gesture toward a sofa pillow which, as the little French girl had reason to know, was both heavy and hard. And Florence had muscle. Of late she had been developing herself. She had gone back to her old work as physical director in one of the many gymnasiums of this great city.

“But why?” the slim girl protested. “It is morning. I am awake. Who wants to sleep after waking up?”

“But look at the clock! Such an hour!”

Petite Jeanne looked. Then her small mouth formed a perfect circle.

“But yet I am awake!” she protested.

“You wouldn’t hurt me,” she pleaded, “you with your hundred and sixty pounds, and poor me, just a little bit of nothing.”

No, Florence would not harm her little French friend. She adored her.

“See!” The exquisite little dancer tossed her blonde head, danced out of bed, flipped out one light, flipped on another, and then continued, “I shall be away in one little minute. This is my luckee day. I must go to dance the sun up from the lake where he has been sleeping, the lazee fellow!”

Florence turned her face to the wall.

“There’s no resisting her,” she whispered to herself.

“And yet many have been resisting her,” she thought sorrowfully.

This was true. All that is life—each joy, every sorrow—must come to an end. The run of the gypsy drama in which Jeanne had played so important a role had ended in June. At first they had believed it would be easy to secure a booking for the coming season. It was not easy. Jeanne’s talents were limited. No dramatic production of any sort was being prepared for the coming year which had a part she could play. They had gone from booking house to booking house, from manager to manager. All had returned Petite Jeanne’s smile, but none had offered her a contract.

All this had not discouraged the little French girl in the least. She believed in what she called her “luck.” Fortunate child! Who can fail if he but believes hard enough and long enough in his luck?

So, though the booking season was all but at an end and prospects were as dark as a December dawn, Jeanne was keeping up her training. Just now, two hours before dawn, she was preparing to go to the park and dance the dew off the grass while the sun came creeping up from the waters of Lake Michigan.

As Jeanne peered into the closet a spot of flaming red smote her eye.

“My luckee dress!” she whispered. “And this is my luckee day! Why not?”

Without further ado, she robed herself in a dress of flaming red which was as short as a circus rider’s costume and decorated with so many ruffles that it was impossible to tell where dress ended and ruffles began.

After tying a broad sash of darker red about her waist, she slipped on socks that rose scarcely above her shoetops, kicked on some pumps, switched out the light and tripped down the stairs to step out into the dewy night.

There are those who are thrilled as they prowl about a city in the dead of night. Others are fascinated by the white lights that gleam before midnight. As for Petite Jeanne, she preferred the hour before dawn, when all the world is asleep. Then, like some wood nymph, she might haunt the dew-drenched park and dance to her heart’s content.

But now, as she left her home at the edge of the park to go skipping down the deserted street, a strange feeling stole over her.

“It’s the dress,” she told herself.

And so it was. She had worn that dress, no, not in America at all. And yet she had called it her lucky dress.

It had been in France. Ah yes, in France, her beloved France! That was where it had brought her good fortune. There, as a girl in her early teens, she had traveled with the Gypsies and danced with her pet bear. When she danced in this flaming gown, spinning round and round until the ruffles seemed a gay windmill wheel, how the coins had come thumping in around her tiny feet!

“But now I am fourteen no more,” she sighed. “And yet, perhaps it is a lucky dress for Petite Jeanne, even now. Who can tell?”

As she spoke these words half aloud, she cast a furtive glance down a dark alley. Instantly her mood changed. On her face came a look of horror. Her lithe limbs trembled. She seemed about to fall.

She did not fall. Instead, summoning all her courage, she went bounding down the street.

What had happened? She had seen a face, a gypsy face. It was an evil face, and one she had seen before. But not in America. In France.

She had read the look in those burning eyes. The man had seen the dress before. He could not but know the one who wore it.

“And he is bad! Bad!” she panted.

One quick glance back, and she doubled her pace. The man was coming. He was gaining.

What had she to fear from him? What had she not? Was he not the leader of a gypsy clan who bore a deadly hate for every member of the Bihari Tribe? And had she not traveled for many months with the Bihari?

She rounded a corner. Before her stood an open basement window. “Any port in a storm.” With a sprightly spring she cleared the window sill and disappeared.

And then—confusion! Where was she? What had happened?

When she thrust a foot through the open window, Jeanne felt some solid object beneath her and was thankful. But scarcely had she thrown the full weight of her body on that object and swung herself through than the thing beneath her veered to the right, swayed for a second, and then gave way and went down with a terrifying crash.

And Petite Jeanne, when she had regained her scattered senses, found herself in the midst of it all. What was worse, it appeared to be a total wreck.

“Wha—where am I? What have I done?” she moaned.

“Well, anyway, I escaped him,” she philosophized.

But was she better off? Having had a full moment to reflect there in the darkness and silence, she began to doubt it. Here she was in a strange place—some one’s basement, and all about her was darkness. That she had done some damage was certain.

“This,” she sighed, “is my luckee day. And what a start!

“Have to get going.” She made an attempt to free herself from the entangled mass into which she had fallen. She put out a hand and felt the rough edge of splintered wood. She moved a foot, and a fragment of glass crashed to the floor.

“The place is a wreck!” she all but sobbed. “And I did it. Or did I? How could I do so much?” She began to doubt her senses.

Now she sat up, silent, intent. Her ears had caught the sound of footsteps.

“Some one’s coming. Now I’m in for it!”

The footsteps seemed to fall as lightly as a fairy’s toes. Scarcely had Petite Jeanne begun to wonder about that when there came the sound of a door being opened. Next instant a light flashed on, revealing in the doorway the face of a girl.

And such a girl! Jeanne pronounced her Irish without a second’s hesitation. She had those unmistakable smiling Irish eyes. And they were smiling.

“She’s younger than I am, and no larger, though her shoulders are broader. She’s bony. Maybe she works too hard and eats too little.” These thoughts, flashing through the little French girl’s keen mind for the moment, drove all thought of her plight out of her head. For those eyes, those smiling Irish eyes, were the sort that take hearts captive. Petite Jeanne was a willing captive.

“Did you fall in the window?” the girl asked.

Jeanne did not answer. She began to stare in amazement at the wreckage all about her. Metal lamps with broken shades, tables split across the top, chairs with rounds gone—all these and many more articles of furniture and equipment were there, and all broken.

“I wouldn’t believe, unless I saw it,” she said gravely, “that so much damage could be done with one tumble.”

“Oh, that!” The girl laughed merrily. “That’s our junk pile. It will all be fixed some time. That’s what my brother Tad does all the time. We buy broken things at auction sales and such places, and he fixes them. Then we sell them. Tad’s older than I am, and an awfully good fixer.”

“He’d have to be,” said Jeanne, looking at the wreckage. “You’d think this was the hold of a vessel after a terrific storm.”

“It’s not so difficult to fix ’em. I help sometimes,” the girl said in a quiet tone. “But most of the time I’m either out buying, or else in the shop selling.”

“Buying?”

“Yes. Buying this.” The strange girl made a sweeping gesture with her hands.

“But don’t you—don’t you—how do you say that in English? Don’t you get stung?”

“Oh, yes, sometimes.” The girl’s fine white teeth showed in a smile. “But not often.

“But let me help you out of there!” she exclaimed. She put out a hand. Jeanne took it. A fine, hard, capable little hand it was.

“This,” said Jeanne, as she felt her feet once more on a solid floor, “is my luckee day.”

“It must be,” agreed the girl. “It’s a wonder you weren’t cut by broken glass. But how did you happen to come in here?”

“A gypsy chased me.”

“A gypsy! How I hate them!” The girl’s face darkened.

“You shouldn’t. Not all of them. Some are good, some bad. I used to be a gypsy.”

“Not really!” The big blue eyes were open wide, staring.

“Well, anyway, in France I traveled with them for a long, long time. And they were very, very kind to me, Bihari and his band.

“But that man!” She threw an apprehensive glance toward the open window. “Ugh! He is a very terrible man. I have not seen him in America before. I wish he would go away forever.”

“It’s good he didn’t follow you.” The girl glanced once more at the window. “I shouldn’t have been much protection. And Tad, he—” she hesitated. “Well, he isn’t much of a fighter.” Jeanne saw a wistful look steal over the girl’s face.

“But come!” said the impromptu hostess, “Let’s get out of here. That gypsy might find us yet.”

They left the room and entered a narrow hallway. Through a door to the right Jeanne caught the yellow gleam of a fire.

“Tad keeps the furnace,” the girl said simply. “We get our flat for that.”

There was a suggestion of pride in her tone as she said “our flat.”

“I’m going to like her more and more,” thought Jeanne. “What’s your name?” she asked.

“Merry Murphy.” The other girl spelled the first name out. “I have to do it,” she explained. “People think it’s M-a-r-y.”

“It should be M-e-r-r-y,” laughed Jeanne.

“Here’s our dining room and workshop.” The girl led the way into a room lighted by a score of lamps.

“How odd!” The words escaped Jeanne’s lips unbidden.

“They’re all fixed. Tad fixed them,” said Merry proudly. “We’ll sell them, but until we do we’ll use them. See, the lights are very tiny. It costs little to use them. And it makes us forget this is a basement. And it is, you know.”

“No!” Jeanne’s tone was sincere. “I truly had forgotten.”

Jeanne’s eyes swept the room and came to rest on the bent shoulders of a person working over a small bench in the corner.

“Tad!” Merry called. “See what I found in our storeroom. And see! She isn’t broken one bit.” She put an arm about Jeanne’s waist and laughed merrily.

“Oh, yes I am!” Jeanne exclaimed. “Broke flat as a flounder! Is that not how you say it here in America, when you have not a penny left?

“But this,” she added quickly, “this is my luckee day. To-day I shall make a beginning at piling up a fortune. See! I will go out to dance the sun up out of the lake where he has been sleeping!”

She sprang across the room in a wild fantastic whirl which set all the lamps jingling and twinkling.

Tad threw down his tools and sprang to his feet. Then the little French girl’s dance came to a sudden end, for she was seized with a mood that unfitted her for the dance. When Tad stood up he was no taller than when he sat down; and yet he was a man in years.

“That’s all right.” He laughed a strange, hoarse laugh. “I’ve always been this way; just a little tad of a man. You’ll get used to it. I have. So has Merry, here.” He laid an affectionate hand on Merry’s arm.

Merry beamed down at him. “It’s not how tall you are, but what you’ve got in your head,” she laughed. “Tad’s head is all full of bright ideas.

“We’re going to have coffee very soon. Won’t you stay and have some with us?”

“And then who will dance the sun up from the lake?” Jeanne went dancing away again. “Oh, no I must not.

“But I must come back. Truly I must. You will take me to a sale, a very strange sale. Will you not?”

“This morning if you like.”

“This very morning! How wonderful! And this is my luckee day!”

“This is the door, if you must go.”

“Truly I must.”

Merry led the way.

“But tell me,” said Jeanne as she stood at the foot of the stairway leading to the street. “If I go to this sale shall I buy something, a very small package all sealed up, very mysterious?”

“Y-yes, I think you may.” The Irish girl laughed a merry Irish laugh. “At this sale all packages are sealed. You don’t know what you buy. You really do not.”

The next moment Jeanne found herself tripping lightly over the dewy grass, bound for the spot beneath the willows where on many a morning before the world was awake, she had gone through her fairy-like dances undisturbed.

The sun was still sleeping peacefully beneath the lake when she arrived at the grove of broad, spreading willows. Off to the east huge clouds like ghosts in dark robes were rushing over the water.

“Never you mind,” laughed Petite Jeanne, “I know you. You are only a great big bluff. When Mister Sun comes out he will dress you in pink and gold. After that he will fade you to palest pale and send you scampering away to cast thin shadows over meadows and pastures where lambs are feeding on clover.”

As if the thought of gamboling lambs set her limbs in motion, the little French girl went springing away in a sprightly dance.

For a full quarter of an hour she lost herself in the intoxicating joy of action. Now she raced away before a breeze. Now she whirled until all her red petticoats were wheels. Now she threw her head back and laughed at the birds who scolded from the trees. And now, snatching the sash from her waist, she went bowing and weaving away toward the sandy beach where little white waves were playing.

It was while on her way back from this little journey that she sought a lone bench beneath the greatest of the willows for a moment of rest.

It was that time of half-light just before dawn. Already the fearsome clouds were beginning to lose their terror. They had taken on a faint touch of old rose.

Jeanne dropped down upon the bench, as she had done many times before, without looking. The next instant she gave forth a startled little “Oh!”

A man was seated beside her. Quite an old man he was, with long gray hair protruding from an ancient slouch hat.

“So you are human!” His drawl was soft, melodious. “I didn’t believe you could be. Only fairies dance like that. I thought you a fairy.”

As if to assure himself that he could not be mistaken, he touched the hem of her broad, short skirt.

Petite Jeanne wanted to spring up and run away. No one had ever been here at this hour; yet something held her in her place.

There are times in all our lives when it seems that an invisible hand, resting upon our shoulder, bids us stay.

“You—why there were times when you flew,” the melodious voice went on. “Flew! That’s what you did.

“I flew once.” His voice took on a reminiscent air. “In an airplane, I mean. Often thought I’d try it again. But when you have a narrow escape once—” The voice trailed off. For a moment there was silence.

“You see,” he began once more, “a fellow asked me to go up. I said it might rain; I’d go if I could take my umbrella.

“He looked at my umbrella, and said: ‘You can’t take that.’

“Most men hate umbrellas. Rather get wet than carry one. Guess he was that way.

“Well, I said: ‘All right, I’ll go up.’ So we went up. And I took my umbrella; slipped it in, kind o’ hid it.

“But, by and by, when we were up a long way and the houses took to looking small, he saw that umbrella. Then he was hopping mad.

“He said: ‘You got to throw that out.’

“I said: ‘I can’t, mister. It would get lost. It belongs to my grandfather. It’s silk. The silk came from China where little yellow ladies wound it off silk cocoons by hand. And the bows are all steel, forged by hand. And besides, it might hit somebody and mighty nigh kill ’em.’

“He said: ‘Don’t matter. Out she goes!’

“Then I says: ‘If she goes out, I go with her.’

“He says: ‘That’s jake with me.’

“So up I climbs and out I jumps. And fall! You never saw the houses get big as fast as those did!

“I got to thinking I might fall on somebody and was feelin’ mighty sorry about that, when I thought of my umbrella. All silk from China it was, where little yeller women wound it out from cocoons. And the bows all made from hand forged steel. Strong they were, strong as London Bridge.

“And when I thought of my umbrella I knew it was all right; parachute, don’t you know.”

Once more his voice trailed away like the last echo of a distant tolling bell.

Petite Jeanne stole a look at his face. It was still, and almost beautiful. “Like a child’s dream,” she thought.

“And then—” He came to himself with a start. “Then I opened up that umbrella. Silk, you understand, all pure silk, and bows of forged steel. Strong as London Bridge. I opened her up, and she caught me and held me and let me down in a cabbage patch. Now what do you think of that?” His face was all wreathed with smiles.

“What do I think?” said Petite Jeanne, with a shy smile in return for his. The light in her eyes was kindly, and the touch on his arm gentle, for the little French girl loved old men with long gray hair, and she was charmed by their stories as she was charmed when she was six. “What do I think? I think you have no umbrella at all.”

“No umbrella!” He put out a hand as if to grasp one. Then, springing to his feet, he pretended to search the bench.

“Bless me!” he cried. “Some one has stolen it! My grandfather’s umbrella. And such a fine umbrella, all silk from China. Little yeller women—”

“Yes, I know. You told me,” laughed Petite Jeanne. “But see! The sun is smiling on the water! I must dance him out for a new day.

“And this,” she sang as she danced away, “this is my luckee day!”

“And now,” said Jeanne, as she returned from dancing the sun up, “tell me another story.”

As the old man looked at her a droll smile played over his wrinkled face. “I don’t think you believe my stories,” he said.

“Oh, yes, I do!” she protested vigorously. “At—at least, almost.”

“Well, then—” He placed his feet on the ground, then prodded the sod with his cane. “Once I was in the Catskill Mountains—or was it the Cascades? I disremember.”

“The mountains don’t matter,” the girl laughed. “I can’t ever remember names. But mountains. There are always bears in mountains.”

The little French girl’s look suddenly went very sober. She seemed ready to burst into tears. Little wonder, for only one short month before she had buried her pet and pal, Tico the bear. Tico had shared her joys and sorrows for many a year. With him as her dancing partner, she had achieved notable success. Now he was gone. So, too, it seemed, were her chances of ever dancing on the stage again.

“He’s gone,” she thought with a sigh, “My pal.”

Tico’s illness had cost her much money. He had been given all the care of a gentleman of importance, and had been buried in a formal manner. Now the little French girl was poor, and Tico was gone forever.

“Bears,” she repeated, pulling herself together, “bears in the mountains. Wild bears. Not tame ones.”

“Yes, wild bears!” the old man said as if taking his cue. “Six ferocious wild bears. I met them all in the Alleghenys—or was it the Rockies?”

“The Cumberlands,” laughed Jeanne.

“Yes, that’s it, the Cumberlands. Six wild, hungry, man eating bears. They formed a circle about me and sat there on their haunches with their tongues lolling.

“They were ready to eat me. And what did I do?”

“What did you do?”

“I danced and made faces. I can dance; not like fairies. But I can dance and make faces. Want to see me?”

Jeanne nodded her head.

Springing from his place on the bench, the old man began to dance.

And now it was the girl’s turn to open her eyes wide in surprise. This old man was an artist. True, he did not dance as lightly as she. But he knew steps and movements. He had not been on his feet for five minutes when she realized that he could teach her much about her own beloved art.

In the joy of dancing he forgot the terrible faces he was to make.

At last, quite out of breath, he threw himself down beside her.

“You’ve been on the stage,” she said solemnly.

“Why, so I have. All my life.”

She put out a small hand. “I, too.” Her voice was mellow with emotion. “I am Petite Jeanne.”

“Petite Jeanne! I should have guessed it.”

“And you?” Jeanne still held his hand.

“Plain Dan Baker. A ham actor. You never heard of me. And never will. They won’t let me hoof it in the sticks any more.”

“I am not sure of that,” Jeanne’s face was sober. “Once to every man and nation. Your time may come.

“But the bears?” She whirled about. “What of the six ferocious bears?”

As she turned she saw with a start that a second man, a young man with dark skin and very black eyes, had dropped to the bench on the other side of Dan Baker.

Did Dan Baker know this? Was he acquainted with this young man? If so, he made no sign but went straight on with his story.

“Oh, yes, the bears!” He chuckled. “There they were, six bears, brown bears; no, grizzlies. There they were ready to eat me.

“What did I do? I began dancing and making faces. A bear’s got a sense of humor; oh, yes, a very keen sense of humor.

“No time at all till I had ’em; had ’em good. Most appreciative audience you ever saw.

“Then, still dancing, I began chucking them hard under their chins, cracking their teeth on their tongues. See!

“No time at all and their tongues were so sore they couldn’t swallow. So why try to eat me?

“That’s the way they looked at it. Soon as the show was over they left; went right off into the mountains; all but one.

“And that one, the biggest one of all, meant to eat me, sore tongue or no tongue at all.

“With a ferocious growl, tongue out, teeth shining, he came right at me.

“What did I do? What could I do? Just one thing. An inspiration! I sprang at him, seized his tongue, crammed it down his throat and choked him to death!”

“Killed him,” said a voice over his shoulder. It was the strange young man.

“Didn’t he bite you?” asked Petite Jeanne.

“Bite me? Oh, yes, to be sure. But then, what’s a little bite between friends?” Once more that deep, dry chuckle.

“Angelo!” he exclaimed. “This is Petite Jeanne. She dances, you know.”

“She does! I saw her. It was divine!” The youth’s eyes shone.

Jeanne flushed.

“You see,” said Dan Baker to Jeanne, “Angelo, here, tries to write plays. I try to be a ham actor. You try to dance on the stage. They won’t let any one of us do what we wish to do, so we should get on famously together.”

“We are all going to be rich,” Jeanne said cheerfully. “For this is my luckee day!”

“We shall be rich, indeed!” exclaimed the young Italian, springing to his feet. “This very moment I have a bright idea. I shall write a play around you two. You shall act it, and we’ll be made.

“But come! I still have the price of coffee and rolls for three. It is time for that now. Let’s go.”

It was with a critical eye that Petite Jeanne studied her strange companions as they marched away across the park toward the nearest row of shops where a lunch counter might be found. With her native French caution she resolved not to be taken in by strangers.

“They amuse me,” she told herself. “Especially the old man. And yet, I wonder if amuse is just the right word. He tells prodigious lies. I wonder if he really means you to believe them. And yet, who would not love him?

“A cup of coffee on a stool,” she concluded. “Where’s the harm in that? He may tell me other stories.”

A cup of coffee on a stool was exactly what it turned out to be. The young host made no apologies as he bowed the little French girl to the nearest lunch counter and gave her his hand as she mounted the high seat.

Petite Jeanne ordered sugar wafers, the others ordered doughnuts, and they all had coffee.

Dan Baker told no stories over that coffee. It was Angelo who did the talking until he hit upon the fact that Jeanne had traveled with gypsies. Then his big dark eyes lighted with a strange fire as he demanded:

“Tell me about that. Tell me all about it!”

Petite Jeanne was tempted not to tell. But the coffee was truly fine, and this was to be her lucky day. Why begin it by refusing such a simple request by a friendly young man?

She told her story, told it very well, told of her wanderings across France in a gypsy van. Once more she danced with her bear down country lanes and across village squares. She sang for pennies at fairs and carnivals. She haunted the streets of Paris.

“Beautiful Paris. Marvelous, matchless, beautiful city of my dreams!” Dan Baker murmured, even as she rambled on.

Jeanne loved him for it. For her, Paris would always remain the most beautiful city in all the world.

As she told her story the dark eyes of the Italian youth, Angelo, were ever upon her. Yet his look was not an offensive one. So impersonal was it that he might have been looking at a marble statue. Yet there was a burning fire in his eyes, the fire of hope, of a new born dream. In that dream he was laying plans, plans for her, Petite Jeanne; a play, his play; a light opera, and what a light opera it would be!

“There!” Jeanne exclaimed as she hopped nimbly off her stool. “I have told you my story. It is a happy little, sad little story, isn’t it? As all true stories must be. There have been for me many moments of happiness. And who in all the world can hope for more than that?”

“You speak the truth, child.” Dan Baker smiled. In that smile there was something so full of meaning, so suggestive of a kindly soul grown mellow with time, that Jeanne wished to stand on tiptoe and kiss that wrinkled face.

Instead, she patted his hand and murmured: “Thank you so much for such a lovely time and for those wonderful, wonderful stories.”

“But you are not leaving us so soon?” protested the young Italian.

“I must. This is to be my luckee day. Strange, mysterious happenings have come to me. More will come. I have an engagement to meet a new friend. She will take me to a sale. There I shall buy a package at auction. What is in the package? Who knows? Perhaps I shall purchase two, or even three. What will these contain? Who knows? Much, I am sure. For this is my luckee day.”

She sang these last words as she danced out of the lunch room.

The others followed. “But you will see me again,” pleaded the young Italian. “You are to be in my play, my light opera. I shall write it at once, around you; you only and him, my white-haired friend. It shall be about your beautiful Paree. And oh, how wonderful it shall be! It has all come to me as you told your story. It is wonderful! Marvelous! I have only to write it. And I shall write it with an electric pen that spits fire. You shall see!

“Only grant me this!” In his excitement he waved his hands wildly. Petite Jeanne could have loved him for that; for is it not thus they do in her beloved France? “Grant me this!” he pleaded. “Come to my studio to-night. When your lucky day is over. Then the night shall be more fortunate than the day.

“See!” he exclaimed as he read doubt in her eyes. “It is all right. My white-haired friend will be there. And if you wish—”

“All right,” said the girl impulsively, “I will come. I will bring my friend.”

“Yes, yes,” he agreed eagerly. “Bring your friends. Bring many friends. We shall have a party by the open fire. We shall have tea and biscuits and preserves from my native land.”

“No,” said the little French girl, as a teasing smile played about her lips. “I will bring one friend, only one. And she is big as a policeman, and so strong! Mon Dieu! She is a physical director. She can swim a mile, and skate like a man. And, oh, la, la! You shall see her.”

At that she went dancing away.

“She was teasing you,” said the old man.

“But she’s a marvel!”

“Yes. She is all that. And you will write a play for us?”

“I will write one.”

“And where shall we open? In Peoria?”

“Peoria? Chicago!”

“But I have never played in a great city. I am a—”

“In this life,” the youth broke in, “it is not what you have been that counts. It is what you are going to be.

“In three months you will see your name beside that other one, Petite Jeanne, and men will fight at the box office for tickets. You shall see!”

The old man said no more. But as they walked away, he squared his bent shoulders and took on for a time quite a military air.

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