Petite Jeanne was a gifted person. She was a dancer of uncommon ability. Those who studied her closely and who were possessed of eyes that truly saw things had pronounced her a genius. Yet she was possessed of an even greater gift; she knew the art of making friends. Defeated by an ancient unwritten law, in her attempt to be a friend to the girls of the chorus, she had found her friends among the lowly ones of the theatre. For with all her art she never lost the human touch.

She had not haunted the ratty old theatre long before Mary, the woman who dusted seats, Jimmie, the spotlight operator, Tom, the stoker who came up grimy from the furnaces, and Dave, the aged night watchman, one and all, were her friends.
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That was why, on special occasions, these people did exactly what she wanted. One night at the ghostly hour of eleven she found herself, bare-footed and clad in scanty attire, doing her dance upon the stage while Jimmie, grinning in his perch far aloft, sent a mellow spot of light down to encircle and caress her as a beam of sunshine or a vapory angel might have done.

Dave, the watchman and her faithful guardian, was not far away. So, for the moment, she knew no fear. The rancorous voice of the director, the low grumble of the manager, were absent. Now she might dance as nature and the gypsies had taught her, with joy and abandon.

Since she had fully decided that on the night of nights, when for the first time in months the old Blackmoore was thronged, she would take matters into her own hands and dance as God, the stars and all out-doors had taught her, and feeling that only practice on the stage itself would give her heart the courage and her brain the assurance needed for that eventful hour, she had bribed these friends to assist her. And here she was.
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Dance on this night she did. Jimmie watched and marveled. Such grace and simple, joyous abandon, such true melody of movement, such color in motion, he had not known before.

“Ah!” he whispered. “............