For an hour she dreamed of the wreck and of the shady shores of Duncan’s Bay. “Dizzy,” she whispered, “I wonder where he is?” Before leaving the wreck, they had set their pet loon free. He seemed quite able to care for himself. “Probably he’s gone ashore and has laughed his head off at some crazy loon that looks just like him,” she chuckled.
“But Jeanne?” Greta asked herself. “Is she truly happy with those queer gypsy people? How strange it seems!”
Yes, Jeanne was happy with “those queer people.” Having, as of old, forgotten all thought of the morrow, she had in true gypsy fashion thrown herself with abandon into the joys of each new day.
At Chippewa Harbor there were a few small cabins and many tents. The visitors showered silver down upon her tambourine when her dance with the bear was over. “Frank, joyous, kindly people, these Americans,” she thought. “What a glorious land!”
And yet her keenest joy came when, after climbing a ridge, she came at last upon a lake three miles long, a mile wide, where there was no one. “Dark forests, darker water, wild moose, wild birds and the deep, glorious silence of God,” she whispered to the companion at her side. “How grand to pitch a tent on these shores and live many long days!”
So the _Ship of Joy_ made its way slowly along the shores of Isle Royale, and still the dark-eyed Greta sat far up on that ridge dreaming the hours away.
After a lunch of toast, bacon and black tea, Greta declared her intention of going out to play for the birds.
Tucking her violin under her arm, she wandered away up the ridge. At the summit, somewhat to her surprise, she found a hard-beaten trail. Traveling here with ease, she wandered on and on until with a little start she found herself recognizing a certain jagged rock formation.
“Must have been here before.” She stopped dead in her tracks. “I have! Last night!”
Should she turn back? Where were the green eyes?
“Green eyes do not shine in the day!” She laughed a little. “Ghosts, witches, green eyes, they all vanish at dawn.”
Seating herself on a moss covered rock, she began thrumming the strings of her violin. Then she sent out some little plaintive snatches of song.
She paused to lean far forward, intent, alert, expectant. Yes, there it was. A bird had answered.
