Then of a sudden she had thought of the curious green light Greta had seen at a distance on that very ridge.
“What could have caused that light?” she had asked herself.
She asked it all over again as she trudged away over the moose trail.
“Of course,” she thought, “there’s the head hunter. But he’s out. Such men don’t climb ridges unless they’re obliged to—too lazy for that! And they don’t make divine music nor light green lamps at night.
“I suppose,” she whispered to herself after a time, “suppose I should have told Greta what Swen said, but—”
Well, she just hadn’t wanted to, that was all. Perhaps she had been selfish, she had wanted this trip so much. She had wanted company too. And too much talk about the secrets of Greenstone Ridge might have frightened Greta out altogether.
“Do you know why they call this Greenstone Ridge?” she said aloud to Greta.
“Because there is a kind of quartz embedded in some of the rocks. They call these greenstones. They are about the seventh most valuable stone in the world.”
“Shall we find some?” Greta’s tone was eager.
“We’ll hope so.” Florence shifted her pack. “They make grand settings for rings, things like that. You chip them from the rocks with a chisel or hatchet.”
“Green stones,” Greta whispered to herself. “Green stone and a green light on this very ridge. Of course, there’s no connection; but then, it’s sort of strange.”
Jeanne’s row from the _Ship of Joy_ to the small dock before the ancient lighthouse was a short one. Her boat tied up, she hurried along the dock, then over the winding path leading up the gentle slope.
Darkness was falling. Even now, from the schooner’s cabin she caught a yellow gleam of light. She cast a hurried glance toward the tall stone tower.
“They live up there somewhere,” she murmured. “But there’s no light.”
Hesitating before a door, she took a grip on herself, then seized the doorknob and gave it a quick turn. The door flew open. Silence, the faint smell of smoked fish and half darkness greeted her. She was at the foot of a winding stairway. She sprang forward and up. At the top of that stairway was a second door. It stood ajar. She rapped on it. No answer. A louder rap. Still no answer.
“Just make sure.” She pushed the door open. “Yes,” she told herself, “someone lives here, some old people who love comfort, chairs and soft, home-made cushions and all that. Dear old people they must be. And there, there’s a rag doll! Must be children, too. Swen never spoke of them. Perhaps—”