“these people surely did kidnap me. but, oh, for a very good reason!” petite jeanne placed her palms against one another and held them up as a child does in a good-night prayer.

almost on the instant of their arrival, the little french girl’s keen eyes had recognized the men of merry’s “golden circle” and had come dancing out to meet them.

when merry tumbled out at the back of the van, jeanne had seized her by the hand and, without a word of explanation, dragged her to a place beside the gypsy camp fire. after a moment in which to regain her breath and overcome her astonishment at the arrival of these friends, she had seized a huge pot of english tea and a plate of cakes and then had dragged merry away to the shadows of a huge black pine tree, leaving the three men to have breakfast with the gypsies.

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“and to think!” she cried, “that you should have come all this way to find me, you and your ‘golden circle!’”

“we—we thought you must be in great distress,” merry murmured.

“of course you would. and that only goes to prove that i, who have been a gypsy, have no right to try living as those do who have not been gypsies.

“but truly i must tell you!” jeanne set down her cup of tea. “you see, these gypsies are french. they knew i, too, was french, that i had been a gypsy, and that i had the god of fire. how?” she threw up her hands. “how do they know many things? because they are gypsies.

“these people,” she went on, “believe very much in the power of the fire god. he is able to heal the sick. they believe that.

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“they believe more than this. they think that when one is sick he is only sad. if they can cheer him up, then he will be well again. so: sing to him; play the violin and guitar; dance for him. bring the fire god and dance before him. that is best of all.

“did you see that beautiful child?” she asked suddenly. she nodded her head toward the camp. “the one among the blankets before the fire?”

merry nodded.

“that child has been very, very sick. now we have sung for her. we have danced for her. the fire god is here. he has smiled for her. perhaps she will get well.

“and that,” she concluded, as if all had been explained, “that is why they kidnaped me. they knew i could dance very well. they wished me to dance before the fire god that the child might be well again.

“and i—” her voice took on an appealing quality. “i might have escaped. after they had taken me from the theatre, they did not compel me to stay. but how could i come away? there was the child. and is not one child, even a gypsy child, more than friends or plays or money or food, or any of these?”

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“yes,” said merry thoughtfully, “she is more than all these. but why did they not ask you to come? why did they carry you away?”

“ah! they are simple people. they did not believe i would come willingly.

“they were at the theatre three times. twice they really meant to ask me, but did not dare. the child grew worse. then they took me.”

“and the falcon—”

“it escaped that night. they told me.”

“and it was the falcon that led us to you,” said merry. it was her turn to take up the story.

that day a doctor was called. he pronounced the gypsy child out of danger.

“doctor,” said merry, looking earnestly into his eyes, “did she truly help?” she threw a glance at petite jeanne.

“without a shadow of doubt.” here was an understanding doctor. “she helped the mother and father to be cheerful and hopeful. this spirit was imparted to the child. nothing could have helped her more.”

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“then,” said merry, “i am glad.”

that afternoon the three men, who had slept the morning through in the back of weston’s truck, drove jeanne and merry to the nearby village where they caught a train to the city.

it was a very sober jeanne who approached the door of the theatre that evening just as the shadows of skyscrapers were growing long.

to her surprise she found florence, angelo, dan baker and swen, gathered there. at their backs were several large trunks.

“why! what—” she stared from one to the other.

“been thrown out,” angelo stated briefly.

“the—the opera? our beautiful opera?”

“there will be no opera. we have been thrown out.” angelo seemed tired. “a road company opens here a week from next sunday.”

florence saw the little french girl sway, and caught her. as she did so, she heard her murmur:

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“the hand of fate! it has turned the hour glass. the sand is falling on my head.”

she was not ill, as florence feared; only a little faint from lack of rest and sleep. she had once more caught a vision of that giant hour glass. a cup of coffee from a nearby shop revived her spirits.

she started to tell her story, but angelo stopped her. “all in good time!” he exclaimed. “you are too tired now. and we must look to our trunks.”

“but i must explain. i—” the little french girl was almost in tears.

“dear child,” said angelo, in the gentlest of tones, “we are your friends. we love you. never explain. your friends do not require it; your enemies do not deserve it; you—”

“ah! a very happy little party, i see.” a voice that none of them recognized broke in. the short, stout, rather ugly man with a large nose and a broad smile who had thus spoken was a stranger.

“thrown out,” said angelo, jerking a hand toward the trunks.

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“so! that’s bad. winter, too.” the man looked them over calmly.

“that little girl can dance,” he said, nodding at jeanne, “like an angel. where’ve i seen her? can’t recall.

“and you, my friend.” he patted dan baker on the shoulder. “where did i see you?”

“topeka, kansas.” the old trouper smiled. “or was it joplin, missouri?”

“probably joplin,” said the stranger.

“mind giving me your card?” he turned to angelo.

“haven’t any.”

“well, then, write it here.” he proffered a blank page of a much-thumbed note book.

angelo wrote. the stranger departed without another word. he had said nothing of real importance; had not so much as told them who he was, nor how he made his living; yet his pause there among them had inspired them with fresh hope. such is the buoyancy of youth. and the old trouper was in spirit the youngest of them all.