"Of course," he added quickly, "all too soon this will be a thing of the past. Buildings will rise here and there. They are rising even now. Three have been erected on these very shores. Scores of buildings will dot them soon. Palm trees will wave, orange trees blossom, grass and flowers will fringe deep lagoons where bright boats flash in the sun. All this will rise as if by magic and our poor abodes built of cast-off things will vanish, our camp fires gleam no more." His voice trailed off into nothingness. For a time after that they sat there silent, staring at the fire.
"That," said Florence, speaking with some effort, "will be too bad."
"No, I suppose not." The old man's voice was mellow. "It's going to be a Fair, a great Exposition. Millions of eager feet will tramp over the very spot where we now sit in such silence and peace. They are to call it the 'Century of Progress.' Progress," he added dreamily. "Progress. That is life. There must be progress. Time marches on. What matter that some are left behind?
"But, see!" His tone changed. "Great clouds are banking up in the west. There will be a storm! My poor shelter does well enough for me. For you it will not suffice.
"You will do well to go forward," he advised, as they sprang to their feet. "It is a long way back over the path you have come. If you go forward it is only a matter of a few blocks to a bridge over the railroad tracks. And across that bridge you will find shelter and a street car to carry you home."
As he stood there by the fire, watching their departure, he seemed a heroic figure, this wandering philosopher.
"Surely," Florence whispered to herself, "it is not always the rich, the famous, the powerful who most truly serve mankind."
Once more she was reminded of the little old lady and her one treasure, the priceless cameo fashioned by skilled and loving fingers so many years ago.
"And I promised to return it to her!" This thought was one almost of despair.
"And yet," she murmured, "I made that promise out of pure love. Who knows how Providence may assist me?"
There appeared to be, however, little time for thoughts other than those of escape from the storm. Their hurried march south began at once.
As for the man who had so inspired them with terror, the one of the evil eye, he had not followed them. There is some reason to doubt that he so much as saw them. Had his attention been directed toward them, it seems probable that he would have passed them by as unknown to him and quite unimportant for he, as we must recall, knew Jeanne only as the boy usher, Pierre.