But the walk freshened her and dispelled the listlessness. She gathered a few shells on one strip of sandy beach, and watched many curious creeping things. A brown lizard glided in and out of some tufts of sedge grass; a great flock of birds high up in the air went flying southward. Many gulls ran along with their shrill cries. Oh, if she were at home! Would she ever reach there? For now gay-hearted Jeanne seemed suddenly dispirited. All the day kept cold, though at sunset the western sky blazed out with glory and the wind died down. Captain Mallard would not start until morning, however, and though the air had a keenness in it the sun gave out a promising warmth. 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.