Then they made Presque Isle, where there was much unloading, and some
stores to be taken on board. After that it grew warmer and Jeanne
enjoyed being on deck, and the memory of how she had come up the lake
was like a vague dream. They sailed past beautiful shores, islands where
vegetation was turning brown and yellow; here marshes still a vivid
green, there great clumps of trees with scarlet branches dancing in the
sun, the hickories beginning to shrivel and turn yellow, the evergreens
black in the shady places. At night the stars came out and the moon
swelled in her slender body, her horns losing their distinct outlines.

But Jeanne had no patience even with the mysterious, beautiful night.
The autumn was dying slowly, and she wondered who brought wood for Pani;
if she sat by the lonely fire! It seemed months since she had been taken
away.

Yes, here was the familiar lake, the shores she knew so well. She could
have danced for very gladness, though her eyes were tear-wet. And here
it narrowed into the river, and oh, was there ever such a blessed sight!
Every familiar point looked beautiful to her. There were some boats
hurrying out, the captains hoping to make a return trip. But the
crowded, businesslike aspect of summer was over.

They pushed along to the King's wharf. It seemed to her all were strange
faces. Was it really Detroit? St. Anne's bell came rolling down its
sweet sound. The ship crunched, righted itself, crunched again, the rope
was thrown out and made fast.

"Mam'selle," said the captain, "we are in."

She took his hand, the mute gratitude in her eyes, in her whole face;
its sweetness touched him.

"I hope you will find your friends well."

"Oh, thank you!" she cried, with a long drawn breath. "Yes, that is my
prayer."

He was handing her off. The crowd, not very large, indeed, was all a
blur before her eyes. She touched the ground, then she dropped on her
knees.

"No, no," to some one who would have raised her. "I must say a prayer,
for I have come back to my own loved Detroit, my home. Oh, let me give
thanks."

"The saints be praised! It is Jeanne Angelot."

She rose as suddenly as she had knelt. Up the narrow street she ran,
while the astonished throng looked after her.

"Holy Mother defend us!" and a man crossed himself devoutly. "It is no
living being, it is a ghost."

For she had disappeared. The wondering eyes glanced on vacancy,
stupefied.

"I said she was dead from the first. S