And according to her promise Donelle went often to the cabin in the

woods. Because it was winter and Point of Pines in a subnormal state,

no one knew of the secret visits. Not even the joyous notes of the

violin attracted attention. Norval painted as he never had in his life

before. His genius burned bright. He knew the difference now; it made

him humble and grateful. He painted the winter woods with an inspired

brush. They were asleep, but not dead. His sunlight was alive; his

moonlight, pure magic. He caught the frozen river with its strange,

shifting colours; he dealt appealingly with the lonely, scattered

houses; they seemed, under his hand, to ask for sympathy in their

isolation.

Guided by Donelle's interpretation, he painted a road full of mystery

and delight. A long road leading to a hilltop.

"Oh!" Donelle cried when she stood close and beheld the picture. "Now I

see what Tom saw long ago, but you had to teach me. The road is alive,

it is a--a friend! You just would not want to hurt it or make it

ashamed. Oh! how the sunlight lies on it. I believe it moves!"

Norval lifted his face, his yearning eyes claimed the love he saw in

Donelle's.

"Sweetheart, trot around and play for me," he would suddenly say, his

lips closing firm, "play and play while I make Tom Gavot's road ready

for him. Child, when I give Tom Gavot this picture, I'll make him

understand many things."

"And you will give him the Road? He'll be so happy." Donelle was

moving about, her eyes dreamy.

"I wonder!" breathed Norval.

"Wonder what?" Donelle paused.

"About a thousand things, my sweet."

By and by Norval painted his love; painted it in the splendid picture

that afterward hung in a distant gallery and was known as "Fairer than

morning, lovelier than the daylight."

In it sat Donelle where the western glow fell upon her. With a rapt

expression in her yellow eyes, her violin poised, the bow ready, she was

looking and smiling at the vision that had caught and held her.

"I seem to be looking at you," Donelle whispered as, standing beside

him, she gazed at the canvas. "Waiting for you to tell me what to play.

I believe, I believe you are saying to me, 'play our pretty little

French song.' Shall I play it now?"

"Yes, my beloved, and then," Norval was sternly intent upon his brushes,

"then we'll go for a tramp with Nick. That infernal little scamp is

like an alarm clock. Look, Donelle, he's coming up the path, coming to

tell us the evening meal is ready. Sometimes I wonder if Mam'selle

guesses?"

After some delay a letter came from Norval's lawyer.

It said:

I think by summer we can bring everything to a satisfactory conclusion.

I can take no definite steps at present because Mrs. Norval's lawyer

writes that she has been quite ill and has gone to the mountains to

recuperate.

Norval frowned, he was getting impatient of delay, he wanted to take

Donelle to Egypt in the early summer. He wanted Law to set his seal of

approbation upon her.

But Donelle saw no reason for perplexity; she existed in so glorious a

state that no disturbing thing ever entered. It was enough for her to

waken in the morning and to know that her love was in Jo's upper

chamber, safe and near. It was joy for her to look at Jo herself and

think that the world could no longer hurt her. How could it, with the

big love holding them all?

When Norval touched her, Donelle felt the thrill of trust and

understanding. She never doubted now and often she would laugh as she

remembered her vow by the cross and thought of St.

Michael's-on-the-Rocks.

"Oh! but it is the magic that has caught me!" she whispered to herself,

hugging her slim body and wishing, with happy tears, that all the world,

her little world, could know.

She wanted Jo to know, and Tom Gavot! She couldn't bear to have Tom

nursing a hate while he was away making his roads. She wanted everyone

in Point of Pines to know, even old Pierre.

She wished, almost pathetically, that Mrs. Lindsay and Professor Revelle

could know.

"For they made me just a little more like my dear love," She said to

herself. "They brightened me and gave me the music. My dear loves me

to be pretty and he loves my music."

But it was not all so easy for Norval. There were times when, alone

with Donelle in the wood-cabin, the crude side of love made its

tremendous claim.

How desirable Donelle was when, casting her violin aside, she flung

herself in a chair by the hearth and said:

"Come, put the paints away and wipe the brushes carefully. Come tell me

a story and then, dear man, I'll stir you some maple and put in a lot of

nuts. Oh! but I will make it good."

Norval, at such commands, felt his strength departing.

"There's one story I'd like to tell you, little woman," he once flung

back to her desperately.

"And that is what?"

"A story of a man and woman."

"Go on, go on," Donelle urged. "That will be the best of all."

"You bet it will!" Then Norval tossed his brushes aside.

"I'm coming over to take you in my arms and kiss you, sweet!" he warned,

but did not move.

"Well, why don't you? And then we can tell Mamsey."

Norval frowned.

"Shall I come to you, dear man?"

Oh! how she lured and tempted from her safe, innocent love. "I trust

you now. I beg your pardon because I once did not. I will come half

the way."

"My sweet, when I take you in my arms to tell you the story I mean to

tell you, I will come all the way! Now stir the syrup, you hard little

bargainer. Throw in an extra handful of nuts for the crimes you commit

but know not of."

"And now you are laughing!" cried Donelle.

"Far from it, I'm thinking of swearing."

"At what?" Donelle was cracking the nuts.

"At the absolute stupidity of----Good Lord, child"--Norval sprang toward

her--"your skirt was on fire! He crushed the sparks and held her for a

moment.

"If anything happened to you," he muttered.

"What would you do?" Donelle trembled a little in his arms.

"I'd go--don't look at me that way, Donelle--I'd go to St.

Michael's-on-the-Rocks."

*CHAPTER XVII*

*THE BLIGHTING TRUTH*

Then spring came softly, fragrantly up the hill from the river. Almost

every day a new little flower showed its head. Tom Gavot came back

grim, tired, and eager. He found his cabin swept and shining, a fire

upon the hearth, and a bunch of timid snow blossoms in a cracked mug on

the table--that made him laugh. But at the sight of them Tom's

weariness vanished and he sat down by his own fireside with a sigh of

complete content.

Jo sang at her work that spring, actually sang "A la Claire Fontaine."

She sang it boldly, without reservations, and Nick forgot his years and

a growing dimness of the eyes. He smelled around among the delectable

new things in the woods, found the scent for which he was searching, and

trotted off gaily, feeling young and dapper once again. Molly, the

sturdy horse, felt her oats; she almost ran away once, tossing Jo from

the shaft into the muddy road.

But Jo only laughed aloud. It was all so absurd and natural.

"The little red cow," Jo said to Donelle that spring, "is old, old. I

really do not know that it's wise to keep her longer. She eats her head

off."

"But you are going to keep her, Mamsey, aren't you? You just couldn't

send her away? Think of all her pretty calves, and she has been so

faithful."

Suddenly Mam'selle recalled the night before Donelle came: when she and

Nick had bided with the little red cow.

"Of course," she blurted out, "I am going to keep her. I was only

supposing."

"Oh! Mamsey, you are such fun, and you never hide any more. You're

really getting to be handsome. Do you know Mr. Alton, Mr. Richard

Alton, says he'd like to paint you as 'The Woman With the Hoe.' He says

you'd show the man--I don't know who he means--what a hoe can do for the

right sort."

"Well, Mr. Richard Alton isn't going to mess me up in his paints. It's

an awful waste of time for a full-grown man to make pictures all day. I

wonder when he's going home?"

"I wonder?" whispered Donelle.

"We'll never have another boarder like him, child."

"Oh! never, Mamsey."

"I wish he'd stay through the summer. I'd like to fling him in the

teeth of Marcel's boarders."

"Oh! Mamsey."

"The Captain says he's all ready for folks now; he's opened sooner

because Father Mantelle prophesies an early summer."

Then one night, after everyone was in bed, the _River Queen_ sneaked up

to the wharf--there is no other word for her action--and a lone figure,

with several bags and a trunk, was deposited.

Jean Duval, who had swung out the lantern from the pole, took charge.

"I'll just take you up to Captain Longville's," he said. "The Captain

can manage."

The following morning Donelle found, upon going to the living room, that

Alton had departed at daybreak.

"He wanted to see the sunrise on the river," Jo explained; "he took

lunch enough to feed a dozen; fried chicken and doughnuts and pickles.

He's the biggest pickle eater I ever saw," Jo laughed. Then added:

"Donelle, I'm going to the village to-day with my linens. The man in

the shop over there has offered a tidy sum for them. I don't think I

can get back to-night. Molly acts like a colt, but her staying powers

are nothing to boast of. You better go to Marcel----"

"But I hate to, Mamsey."

"Child, I'd rest easier----"

"Then I'll go, Mamsey. I'd even go to that dirty old Pierre's or to the

Kelly's if you would rest easier, Mamsey. Isn't life just like a book?"

"It is!" murmured Jo with conviction. "It certainly is wonderfully like

a book."

After Jo had gone and Donelle had put the little house in order she

closed the door and windows and whistled to Nick.

"Come on, you old dear," she said, "and how thankful I am you can't

talk, Nick. You can look and thump your tail all you want to; no one

understands that. Nick, when _he_ gets back, he'll be tired. We'll be

there to meet him. Come on, Nick!"

The sun was warm and bright, it filtered through the trees and reached

the brave spring flowers showing in the moss and the rich, black earth.

"Don't step on the flowers, Nick. Where are your manners?" Donelle

gave a laugh and Nick made wide circles. And so they came to the

wood-cabin and went inside. Donelle left the door open for she meant to

make a rousing fire, and the day was too fine to be shut out. Nick

pattered around the room for a few moments and then curled up in the

window seat.

"There, now," said Donelle at last, "I think everything is right and

cosey, I can finish that book."

So she took the story she and Norval had been reading and, buried in the

deep chair, with her back to the door, she was soon absorbed.

She heard a step outside, smiled, and made believe she was asleep.

Someone entered, saw her, and quickly drew conclusions; bitter, cruel

conclusions, but conclusions that drove an almost defeated sense of duty

to the fore.

"Good morning. Is this Mr. Norval's--" there was a pause--"studio?"

Donelle sprang up as if she had been shot. A thin, desperately

sick-looking woman in rich velvet and furs confronted her. The

incongruous garments, the strangely haunting name, made Donelle stare.

"Is this Mr. Norval's--studio? I asked." The thin, sharp voice seemed

to awaken Donelle at last.

"No," she replied, "this cabin is where Mr. Richard Alton paints his

pictures."

"Indeed! He's changed his name, I see. I--" and now the stranger came

in and closed the door after her, closed it with an air of

proprietorship--"I am Mrs. James Norval," she said, sitting down. "And

you, I suppose, are--let me see if I can recall your name, it is rather

an odd one. Now I have it, Donelle Morey. That's right, isn't it?"

"Yes." Donelle stood staring. She was not quite sure that she was

awake, but--yes, there was Nick snoring on the window seat and the

lovely river picture was on the easel. Besides, like a stab, the name

she had just heard became vividly familiar, it belonged to the Walled

House.

"Yes, I'm Donelle Morey," she managed to say faintly.

"I know all about you. Mrs. Lindsay was my friend. I thought Mr. Law

was going to look after you. Has he been up here, Mr. Anderson Law?"

Katherine Norval was glancing about the room, her keen eyes taking in

the pictures. How splendid they were!

"No, Mr. Law has never been here."

Donelle was groping, groping among other familiar names in this suddenly

quickened moment.

"I suppose he sent Mr. Norval?"

A righteous anger seized upon Katherine Norval; she felt she understood.

Anderson Law had urged her husband to act for him. Norval had come,

disguised, and had taken his own method of solving matters. He was

making "cause" for his divorce undoubtedly, while at the same time he

was deluding an innocent and trusting girl.

A stern sense of duty arose in her. "I will save the girl as far as I

can," she thought, "but what a dastardly thing!"

"My dear," she said, "I do wish you would sit down. You make me feel

quite uncomfortable." Katherine meant to disregard, before Norval's

victim, what she really believed.

Donelle groped toward a chair and sat down.

"I quite understand your surprise," said Katherine. "You have known my

husband as--as Richard Alton. You see, Mr. Law was going abroad; he was

to have carried out Mrs. Lindsay's wishes for you, but he sent my

husband instead. I suppose Mr. Norval wanted to know you well before he

disclosed his errand."

Donelle was experiencing the same sensation she had felt when Pierre

Gavot, upon the lonely road, had spoken the terrible word years and

years before!

"I see I have surprised you, child?"

Katherine Norval was growing restive under the look in the wide, glowing

eyes fixed upon her. "It is always a bit of a shock to find that

someone has--played with you. But I'm sure my husband meant no harm, at

first; and then he would not know how to get out of his scrape. That

would be like him, too." A laugh followed the words, a hard, thin, but

sweet laugh.

Still Donelle sat looking straight before her and keeping that awful

silence which was becoming irritating.

"Perhaps you do not believe me," Katherine said rather desperately and

with a distinct sense of the absurdity of her position. "See here!"

Taking a locket from her bosom she opened it and held it before

Donelle's staring eyes.

"These are my husband and baby!"

The picture of Norval was perfect; the child, young and lovely, seemed

to be smiling trustfully at him.

"It's a pretty baby," Donelle said, and her voice seemed to come from a

long distance. Then she got up quickly.

"Where are you going?" asked Katherine Norval.

"I--I don't---- Oh! yes, I'm going to Tom Gavot's."

"Don't you think you better wait here with me until--until Mr. Norval

returns? He will speak openly to you then and explain everything."

"No, oh, no, I couldn't!"

A great fear rose in Donelle's eyes.

"My dear, I am very sorry for you!" And Katherine spoke the truth. She

was sorry, deeply so, but she was more shocked and indignant than she

had ever been in her life before. It was to Norval's credit that she

did not believe the worst of him. She concluded that stupidity, rather

than viciousness, had led him on to deceive this simple girl without

realizing what the actual result would be.

"And so you will not wait with me?" She watched Donelle cross the room.

"I am so sorry, child. I wish now that I had come before."

"Good-bye!" Donelle gave her a long, sad look. Then she whistled to

Nick and went out, closing the cabin door behind her as one does who

leaves a chamber of death.

She walked along slowly, feeling nothing keenly, but noticing with a

queer sort of concentration the flickering shadows; there were clouds

coming up, it was growing darker. She was glad that she had closed the

little house before leaving. If there were a storm all would be safe.

Presently she came to Tom Gavot's hut and went in, thankful that it was

empty, though she knew Tom would soon be coming.

She made a fire, brushed the hearth, and sat down upon the floor, trying

hard to think--think! But she could not get very far. Round and round

the one fact her thoughts whirled. The man she loved, the man she had

trusted, had wronged her in the deadliest way. He had killed something

in her, something that had made her happy and good. She did not want to

remember anything now; she wanted to put herself beyond the reach of the

look Norval had once given her, and of his later words--words which had

made her trust him. Donelle grasped at the thought of St. Michael's

with a yearning that hurt her. If little Sister Mary were there, she

would understand. Donelle was sure the lost look in Sister Mary's eyes

would make her understand. But St. Michael's was a long way off, and

Donelle meant to place herself out of reach of more hurt before Norval

could see her. Pride, love, shame, and then--desperation swept over the

girl. Everything had failed her, everything, and all because her father

had left her mother! That was why people dared to--to play with her.

And just then Tom Gavot came in, shaking the wet of a sudden shower from

his fuzzy coat.

"Well!" he cried, looking at Donelle with startled eyes; "what's the

matter?"

"Tom, I wonder if you would do--something for me? It's a big thing, and

you'd just have to trust me more than any man ever trusted a girl

before." A feverish colour flamed in Donelle's cheeks.

The light flickered in Gavot's eyes, his lips twitched as he looked at

her.

"I guess you know there isn't anything I wouldn't do for you, Donelle,"

he said, coming close and standing over her protectingly.

"It--it isn't fair to you, Tom, but I'll live my whole life making it up

to you. And you know I can keep my word."

"What is it, Donelle?"

"Tom, I want you to--to marry me. Marry me, now, this very afternoon!"

"My God!" murmured Tom and sat down, leaning forward over his clasped

hands.

"It's this way," Donelle went on slowly, as if afraid she might not make

herself clear and yet fearing more that she might wrong another in her

determination to reach safety. "It is Mr. Richard Alton. He--he isn't

Mr. Alton at all, he's Mr. Norval. Mrs. Lindsay used to talk about him,

and he came here to--to get to know me without my knowing him. And

then--something happened!"

"What?" The word issued from Tom's lips like a snarl.

"We loved each other very much, Tom. We couldn't help it, but you see I

am the kind of girl that makes it seem as if it did not matter very

much, I guess. I am sure he didn't mean to hurt me; it just happened,

and neither of us could help it, Tom."

"God! I'll kill him."

"Oh! no, Tom, you will not, you shall not hurt him. You will just help

me, and then he'll think, I--I--did not care very much, that I was

playing, just as he was. I want him to think that, more than anything

else, for then everything will be easy. He must not think I care!"

"Did he tell you that he would marry you?" asked Tom with a terrible

understanding in his eyes.

"Well, not exactly," Donelle tried to be very just, very true, "it was

the big love, you know, and I just thought of being always with him."

"Why have you stopped thinking so?"

"Well, Tom, I will tell you. I was up in his cabin, waiting for him

this morning, and his wife came. I know about her, too. When I heard

her name I knew everything. And she told me many things and she showed

me their baby's picture. It is such a pretty baby--oh! Tom."

The misery on Donelle's face roused in Gavot a cruel hate.

"Blast his soul!" he cried, then took Donelle's face in his cold hands

and looked deep into her eyes. His soul revolted at the question he was

about to put, it was like giving poison to a child: "Donelle, tell me

before God, has he done to you what--what your father did to Mam'selle

Jo?"

For an instant Donelle repeated the words in her inner consciousness

until the meaning was quite plain. Her lovely eyes never faltered, but

suddenly a new knowledge rose in them.

"No," she whispered, "no, Tom, not that. It was only--the love."

"Thank God, then, I've got you in time."

"Yes, in time, Tom. That's what I meant. He would never hurt me that

way, Tom--never! But I do not want him to know that he could hurt me at

all! Don't you see, Tom, if he thought that I was caring for you all

the time and just playing with him, it----"

The quivering face writhed in Tom's hands.

"Oh! Tom, I know it is wicked for me to ask you to do this for me, but

all my life long I will repay you!"

The man looked down at the girl, who was pleading with him to take that

for which his soul hungered--at any price! Full well he knew that she

would keep her bargain, poor little hurt thing. And he could slave and

work for her--he could shield her from harm and make her safer than she

could be in any other way. The devil tempted him, and for the moment,

claimed him.

"Yes, by God!" he cried. "I will take you to Father Mantelle's now!

We'll make our future beyond the reach of that infernal scoundrel,

Norval, or whatever his name is!"

"Tom, never any more must we talk about him. We must just begin from

now--you and I. All these years Mamsey has let people think well--of my

father. I think I am a little like Mamsey, Tom, and from now on, it is

just you and I. You must promise or I could not marry you."

"Come on, Donelle! See, it is raining, you must wear this heavy coat,

it will quite cover you. Come!"

Tom had appropriated her, taken command. His face was almost terrible

in its set purpose.

She followed him mutely, obediently, as any little hill woman might have

done. Her face was ghastly, but she did not tremble. Side by side they

made their way to Father Mantelle's; the rain poured upon them, their

steps sloughed in the soft earth, and behind them trudged Nick, looking

old and forsaken!

Father Mantelle did his duty--as he saw it. He made sure that Tom fully

understood what he was undertaking; he made sure that Donelle was wiser

than he had believed her. He winced as she confessed that her love for

Mam'selle Morey had, after full comprehension of their relation, brought

her back and kept her silent. She had known about herself all along.

"And that's why," Tom put in, "that we insist upon silence now. I'm

going to run things hereafter."

And so Father Mantelle married them and put the blessing of the Church

upon them.

It was quite dark when they left the priest's house; dark and still

storming in the quiet, persistent way that spring knows.

"Was Mam'selle going to leave you in the house with--with that man

to-night?" Tom asked suddenly.

"No--I was going to Marcel's. But, Tom, I must go and feed the

animals." Almost Donelle had forgotten the helpless creatures. She was

terribly afraid that she might encounter the man she most dreaded in the

world, for he was quite one of the family and often made his own meal

when Jo and Donelle were away. But if he had gone to the wood-cabin

first, she argued, he would not come to the little white house. Of that

she felt sure!

So she and Tom fed the animals and made them safe for the night. In

doing the homely, familiar tasks Donelle felt a certain peace, but she

had not yet recovered from her terrible shock; she was spiritually numb.

"Come, now!" Tom said at last. "We must get back to the hut, you're wet

to the skin and I haven't eaten since morning."

"Tom!" Donelle was aghast; and then she remembered that she, too, had

fasted since breakfast.

So, silently, stolidly they went down the Right of Way to the river-hut.

The fire was still burning on the hearth, the room was hot and still.

"Come in, Nick!" called Tom to the dog who had kept close to them; "come

in!"

Wet and bedraggled Nick slouched in and, eyeing Donelle as if she were a

stranger, passed to the far side of the room and lay down, his head upon

his paws, his eyes alert.

Tom brought out food and they all ate, Nick condescending to come

nearer.

The heat, the weariness and suffering of the day, began to tell upon

Donelle and presently a terror seized her--a terror she had never known

in her life before. She looked at Tom with wide eyes, her face became

livid.

The rain outside beat against the window and pattered on the roof.

The devil that had tempted Tom earlier was taking control of the

situation. His face was tense, his eyes burning. He was thinking,

thinking, and his thoughts scorched. He was thinking of women, women,

his mother, Mam'selle Morey--even that unknown woman, the wife of the

man who had all but ruined Donelle. Then he thought of Donelle herself,

but he dared not look at the pale little thing by the fire. She was

his! She had done him a great injustice, it was only fair that he

should hold her to her bargain. She had only thought of herself, how to

save herself, she ought to pay for that.

Pay--pay--pay! The word was hateful and ugly. Again Tom thought of his

mother, and her face rose sharply before him.

Then the finest thing that Tom ever did in his life he did at that

moment.

In the still, hot room, with eyes at last resting upon Donelle's bowed

head, he vowed to his God that _she_ should not pay, not if it cost him

all that life held dear! If the time ever came when she could give--Tom

breathed hard. Then he spoke.

"Donelle," his voice was deep and solemn, "you're tired, done almost to

death, but you're safe--safer than you know. I want you to go to that

bed"--Gavot pointed to his cot in the far corner by the side of which

Nick lay curled--"and you are to sleep. I'm going to pile the fire high,

and----"

"Tom, let me go to Marcel's just for to-night, please, Tom!"

The agony in Donelle's eyes made Gavot shudder.

"I guess I'd rather have my wife stay here," he said. Then added, "You

must do what I say, Donelle. I've done my part, you've got to do

yours."

"I will, Tom. I will."

Gropingly she walked across the room, while Tom piled wood on the fire.

In the dark shadows she waited. Then Tom rose up, took his heavy coat,

his fur cap, and went toward the door.

"Good-night," he said. It was like a groan. "Good-night, and you're

safe, Donelle, so help me God! After I am gone, draw the bar across the

door."

Then Donelle was alone with Nick. She stood and looked blankly after

Tom. Then she tiptoed across the room, took the bar in her hand,

paused, lifted it, and--let it fall! Proudly she went back, her eyes

were aflame, her heart beat until it hurt. She lay down upon the wide

cot, drew over her the heavy blankets Mam'selle had donated for Tom's

comfort, and fear left her.

"Nick," she whispered, "Nick, come here!"

The dog came close, licked the hand reaching out to him in the darkness,

then lay down close to the bed.

For an hour Donelle listened, waited, then she began to suffer. But she

made no moan and always no matter how she thrashed the matter over, she

saw St. Michael's-on-the-Rocks. It seemed like home after a hard

journey; her home, the place where she belonged. The only place to

which she had a right to go.

*CHAPTER XVIII*

*TOM GAVOT SETTLES THE MATTER*

The rain had detained Norval. He had watched the sunrise on the river

and he had caught as much of it as his soul could take in. He had eaten

a hasty lunch at noon and then became absorbed by the beauty of the gray

mists that were rising, where, but a little time before, the glory had

controlled everything. He painted until mid-afternoon, then a raindrop

caused him to glance up.

"Hello!" he said, and scrambled for his belongings. In a few minutes he

was on his way back, but to protect his sketches, he had to pause every

now and then, when the downpour was heaviest.

He had meant to go right to Jo's and get dry clothing, but by skirting

the road he could reach the cabin _en route_, leave his paints and

canvases, and the rest did not matter. It was after five when he came

in sight of his cabin.

"By all that's holy," he said, and laughed, "that little rascal is

there, she's made a fire. Of course this is all wrong, she mustn't----

But to think she has no fear!" Somehow this elated Norval considerably.

He hastened on, meaning to get Donelle and start out at once for

Mam'selle's, as it was growing very dark.

He opened the door with an amused smile on his face, then he fell back.

"My God! Katherine," he said, "what does this mean?"

"I think, Jim, you better come in and close the door. I cannot go out

in this rain and we can have our talk here." Katherine spoke as if her

presence there was the most natural thing in the world; her voice was

hard and even. She knew her duty; she had even acknowledged, during the

hours she had sat alone after Donelle went, that part of the blame for

all this confusion rested upon her. She had fallen short in her

estimate of her original duty to Norval. She had deserted him, not

without some cause to be sure, but no matter what his selfishness and

indifference had been in the past they had not made it right for a wife

to forsake the sacred tie that bound her.

After Donelle had left the hut Katherine went over and over the matter

from the day when with her "Awakened Soul" in her hands she had demanded

a freedom that it was in no man's power to bestow. It had taken her a

long time to learn her lesson, but once having learned it, having come

back, her path of duty was, to her, quite plain. She gave not a

moment's thought to the shock her sudden appearance would give Norval;

she was rallying from the effects of the shock that Donelle had given

her. She must make sure, of course, but the more she considered, the

more confident she became that no real harm had been done. She had come

in time.

Self-centred, incapable of wide visions, Katherine Norval had leaped

over non-essentials and had arrived at safe conclusions. But her

husband was unnerving her; he made her feel as that white slip of a girl

had and she resented it.

Norval was deliberately taking off his wet coat. Having done this he put

on an old velvet jacket, came to the fire, leaned his arm on the

mantel-shelf and looked down upon his wife. That she was still his wife

he had to confess, though she seemed the merest stranger.

"I don't suppose there is a chance that I am dreaming?" he said grimly

in an effort to relieve a situation that was becoming hideously awkward.

"You don't happen to be an optical illusion, do you?"

"I'm quite myself, Jim. Is it such an unusual thing for a wife to come

and see her husband, especially when she has much--much business to

discuss? And your work----" Katherine was struggling with the growing

impression that she was bungling something, though absurdly enough she

did not quite know what. "You've worked to some purpose, Jim."

Norval ignored her reference to his work.

"It's a bit queer to have my especial kind of wife here," he said. "You

see, Katherine, I had every reason to believe that you desired to

eliminate me; I'd taken every step possible to assist you. I simply

cannot account for you, that's all."

Norval noted her pallor and thinness, then he remembered that she had

been ill.

"Jim," she said suddenly, her sharp little chin raised, her cold, clear

eyes searching his, "before we go any further I must ask you a question:

This girl, this Donelle Morey, what is she to you? What are you to

her?"

"What right have you to ask that?" Norval grew rigid. "How did you

manage to get here? How did you know I was here, anyway, Katherine?"

"You sent a letter once with the postmark on it. Then I remembered! For

awhile, I did not care. Then things became different. Jim, I must know,

I have a right to know, has this girl any claim upon you? I could make

nothing of her, I----"

"Good God! Have you seen her?" Norval sprang a step forward. "Have

you talked to her?"

"Why do you glare at me so, Jim? Of course I have seen her, talked to

her. I came last night. I am staying at a house down the road. I heard

that a painter by the name of Alton lived with Mam'selle Jo Morey, made

pictures in a cabin in the woods; I put things together. I went to

Mam'selle Morey's, found the house empty. I came here and found

the--the young girl quite at home, apparently waiting for you."

The cold voice was calm and deadly distinct, the eyes were

indignant--but just.

"And then you talked!" There was a sneer in Norval's voice. "I suppose

you felt it your duty to talk? What did you talk about, Katherine?"

Norval was in a dangerous mood, but his wife had never been afraid of

him and she knew no fear now. Besides, she had the whip hand. He knew

it; she knew it!

"I told her your name, for one thing. I do not question your

conscience, Jim. I leave that to you."

"Thank you, and what next did you tell her?"

"I told her the truth. Are you afraid of the truth? Are you afraid of

the truth, Jim? You were flying under false colours, were you not?"

"Yes."

"I told her Anderson Law sent you; he did, did he not, Jim?"

"He asked me to come, yes."

"And you think you have fulfilled your duty to Anderson Law? You think

he would approve?"

Norval winced.

"I ask you again, Jim, has this girl any hold on you?"

"If you mean the vile thing I fear you mean, no! As God hears me, no!"

Norval spoke in a still fury. "If you mean has she the highest claim a

woman can have on a man, yes. Katherine, it may be best for us to get

this over as soon as possible. If I seem brutal, you'll have to forgive

me. I'm pretty far gone in my capacity of self-control. I dare say

you've spoken nothing but the truth to the girl you found here. I make

no excuse for her or myself. Think what you please, patch it up anyway

you can. Whatever wrong has been committed is mine, not hers. She never

knew of your existence until you informed her. She is as simple as a

child, as wonderful as a woman can be before the world has spoiled her.

I love her and she loves me. I meant to tell her everything when I was

free; she could not understand before. My only desire is to--to marry

her and know the first pure joy of my life. But I suppose your plain,

damnable truth has killed her. If it has, I swear----"

"It has not killed her, Jim." And there was a glint in Katherine's

steely eyes. "She said she was going to a Tom Gavot, whoever he may be.

And, Jim, doesn't it sound a bit, well, peculiar, for you to speak as

you have just spoken to--to your wife? For, after all, I still am your

wife."

"But that tie will soon be broken. Why did you come here; why, in

heaven's name?"

An impotent fear held Norval. Katherine was there, and Donelle had gone

to Tom Gavot! That was about all he could take in. Suddenly Katherine

Norval's face softened, her head dropped, she looked terribly ill and

haggard.

"Please, Jim," she pleaded, "sit down, I must tell you something I came

here to tell you, and I'm not very strong."

Norval sat down, still repeating in his clogged thoughts:

"Donelle has gone to Tom Gavot."

"I suppose," Katherine's words ran along, at times sinking into Norval's

confused brain, "I suppose I had to pass through a certain phase of

life, as many do. I had been so sheltered, so, well suppressed by my

training and experience. Then, when I believed I could write, I felt I

could not resist the thing that rose up in me. I almost hated you

because you seemed to stand between me and my--my rights. Then for a

time I was bewildered by my success, and when he, the man I told you

about, came into my life, I was driven astray! He seemed to see only

me, my life. He subjugated everything to my wishes. He was getting for

me what I did not know how to get for myself; recognition and--and a

great deal of money. Jim, I, who had never earned a penny! It was

wonderful! Then, I was taken ill and he wanted me to get my divorce and

marry him at once. I tried to, I really felt it was right, I wanted to,

but as soon as I saw him in the light of a husband, Jim, a dreadful

revulsion came. I kept seeing you, in him. I wonder if you can

understand? When he came to my room I saw you and when I saw him I was

afraid. It seemed so fearfully wrong.

"I was sent away into the hills where it was cold. I had had pneumonia

and the doctors thought I should have the mountain treatment. I would

not let him come, Jim. I went alone, and I was so lonely; so

miserable----" Katherine was weeping desolately and sopping the tears

up with her delicate handkerchief.

"Often I longed to die and be put under the snow, where it would be

warmer and I could forget. And then I began to think of you, Jim, as I

never had before. I saw you always patient with my moods, always kind.

I saw you so humble about your great talent, trying so hard to hide it

and live down to me! Yes, Jim, down to me. And then I hated myself and

the silly ideas I had had. I was afraid to die until I told you. I was

afraid to go to our--our baby, until you understood. And so I came

back, Jim, and I found that girl--here. Oh! Jim, I may have only a

little while to stay, please go with me for the rest of the way!"

Katherine stretched out her thin hands.

But Norval did not move. He stood looking at the woman before him with

compassionate eyes, but his soul saw Donelle. Alone in the midst of all

this trouble stood Donelle who had done no wrong, who had come into her

great love with trust and purity. Must she be the sacrifice? She, for

whom he hungered and thirsted with the best that was in him?

And yet, if he defended Donelle's claim, could he hope to make

Katherine, make any one, believe that he was not seeking his own ends

first, Donelle's afterward? The easiest thing to do may often be the

bravest, and after a moment Norval made his choice.

"Katherine," he said, "this is heart-breaking, incomprehensible. Things

have gone too far for us to retrace our steps as simply as you think.

You must try to believe that I do not want to hurt you, but I fear I

must. You and I were never fitted for each other, though I did not

realize it until you took your stand. Your decision knocked life all

out of gear for me and I wandered about like a lost soul. I came here to

see this young girl for Andy Law's sake and with no other intention than

doing him a good turn and learning all I could. I grew to love Donelle

Morey and learned to know what love was for the first time in my life.

Oh! I know what you, what our world would say; she's not your kind,

their kind. But before God, she's my kind! I cannot set her aside. I

did not oppose your wishes, Katherine, even before I saw this girl. I

felt I had no right to stand in your way. Have you a right to stand in

mine, now? Is there no justice in my case? Katherine, you think only of

yourself. You are a selfish woman!"

Dumbly Katherine looked at Norval. She was capable of drawing only one

conclusion--he was a man! He felt no duty, no sacred relationship. She

was ill, desperate; he wanted to be free and seek love where youth,

health, and fascination were. She felt she understood and she must save

him from himself.

"Jim, think of our child!" She thought she was putting herself aside,

she resented the thing Norval had called her.

"I do think of him, Katherine. I have never forgotten him. I was glad

he was dead when, when you went away."

"But, Jim, has the past no hold upon you? No claims?"

"Yes, and because it has, I dare not make any further mistakes. Listen,

Katherine, I am going to tell this--this young girl, Donelle, the whole

ugly, confused thing. I'm going to lay my soul, yours, too, if I can,

open before her and she shall decide. She, young as she is, has a

spirit that can face this tremendous situation, and she has a mighty

love that can save us all. May I take you to your boarding-place,

Katherine, or will you wait here? I must go to Donelle."

"Jim, Jim, what are you thinking of? Dare you burden this child with

this hideous decision?"

"Yes." Norval strode toward the door.

Katherine wept afresh. "I will wait here. I'm tired and I cannot

endure the long walk in this storm."

And then Norval was gone out into the night, closing the door behind him

with a sound so final that the woman by the hearth moaned.

Crashing through the thicket Norval went to Gavot's cabin only to find

it empty. But the fire burned freshly upon the hearth.

"She's been here and made his place ready for him," thought Norval, "and

then she went back home."

So up the Right of Way Norval plodded to Mam'selle's house. He went

into the living room and lighted the lamp. There on the table lay one

of Jo's queer notes of instruction.

"I can't get back to-night. There's chicken and stuff in the pantry.

Donelle's staying with Marcel Longville."

Norval smiled at the note and clutched it close. How trustingly it had

been left. And Donelle was safe with the Longville's. There was a

gleam of comfort in the blackness.

Norval walked to the kitchen and took two glasses of milk. He then went

upstairs, changed his wet clothes, came down, extinguished the light

and, with cap drawn over his face, hands plunged in his heavy coat

pockets, set forth in the drizzle on the three-mile walk to Longville's.

Before he reached the house he paused. What had his wife told them?

Did he dare present himself? He stood still on the road to consider.

Just then Marcel came to the door, candle in hand, and spoke to the

Captain, who was behind her in the room.

"It's queer that that Mrs. Norval don't come back, Captain. I wonder if

she's lost. I wonder if we oughtn't to set out and look her up?"

"Like as not she's found Mam'selle and Donelle more to her taste. You

told her how to reach them, didn't you? She's safe enough. Her kind

hates water as a cat does, she's under shelter. Mam'selle will look

after her, try to keep her like as not, now that she's out for

business."

"It's early for the boarding season, anyway," murmured Marcel, going

within, "too early by far."

"I must go back to Gavot's!" thought Norval, and turned wearily to

retrace his way over the wet, slimy road.

It was nearly nine when he reached Tom's place and he was just in time

to see Gavot come out of the house with bowed head and stumbling step.

He went close and spoke before Tom realized that any one was near.

"Gavot, in heaven's name, have you seen Donelle Morey?"

Tom reeled back against a tree.

"You dare come here?" he growled under his breath. "Damn you!"

"Hold on, Gavot, you're too big a fellow to judge a man unheard. I know

things are black against me; I'm going to try to explain. It's your due

and I can trust your common sense. Can we go inside and have it out?"

"No, I want none like you to enter my house."

"Then you shall hear what I have to say here." Norval drew nearer.

"Not so fast, you!" Tom warned him off. "Answer me a few questions

first, no talk, just plain answers. Then we'll argue about the rest,

I'm thinking. Is your name what you've held it to be, Richard Alton?"

"No, Gavot----"

"Are you a married man?"

"Gavot, in God's name, let me----"

"Answer me, or I swear I'll try to kill you."

"Don't be an ass, Gavot."

"Have you a wife?"

"Yes, but----"

"And you made a girl love you, with all this in your soul? Well, she

came to me, curse you, before--before much harm was done. When she

heard what she heard this morning, her eyes were opened and she came

where she rightfully belonged. Donelle came to me! She told me, and we

were married an hour ago. I've always wanted her, she knew that, and

when she knew about you, she came to her senses."

"You lie!" Norval made a movement toward Gavot, but Tom stayed him.

"If you touch me," he said threateningly, "I'll do my best to end you.

Go to Father Mantelle, if you doubt my word. But first, look here; look

through the window you spied through once before."

Like thieves the two men went to the side of the house. Just then, in

the fireplace a large log fell, the sparks lighting up the room inside.

In the glow Norval saw Donelle curled up on the bed, her hand on the

head of faithful Nick. A deep moan escaped him, he turned to Gavot like

a stricken man.

"By all you hold holy," he whispered, "deal with her as you hope for

God's mercy. She was driven to you when she was beside herself. I

cannot help her, but it lies in your power, Gavot, to keep her out of

hell."

"I know what to do with my own, you! See to it that you do the same."

Tom glared at Norval.

Then Norval turned and went back to the wood-cabin. His face had grown

old and stern, his eyes hard. Katherine was awake; she was still

crying.

"Jim--what--what--is it to be?"

"I'm going the rest of the way with you, Katherine. And as you value the

future, let us bury everything here. To-morrow, we must take the boat

back to New York."

Early the next morning Norval, he and Katherine having passed as

comfortable a night as possible in the cabin, went to Mam'selle Jo's and

hastily packed most of his clothing. He sent a boy to Longville's for

Katherine's luggage, giving them no explanations, left a brief note for

Jo, and--drifted from Point of Pines.

Mam'selle returned from her business trip late in the afternoon. Marcel

stopped her as she passed.

"I think you'll find company at your house," she said, quite excitedly

for her. "A boarder came here day before yesterday; she walked down to

Point of Pines the next morning. She knows your boarder. The storm must

have kept her. I daresay Donelle made her comfortable."

"Donelle?" Jo stared. "Wasn't Donelle with you last night, Marcel?"

"No."

Jo waited to hear no more. She laid the whip on Molly's surprised back

and bent over the reins.

*CHAPTER XIX*

*THE CONFESSION*

Jo was not one to take any step hurriedly. Though her heart broke, she

was cautious. Upon entering her quiet house she found a note from Alton.

It merely said that Donelle would explain. Going to the room above, Jo

saw that a hurried but orderly departure had evidently been made.

"He hasn't messed much," she muttered vaguely, while a great fear rose

in her heart, she knew not why.

"Well, there's nothing to do but wait for Donelle," she concluded, and

began the waiting.

She went to the stable and sheds. The animals had evidently been fed

the night before, so Jo milked the cow, did the chores, and whistled

aimlessly for Nick. She was comforted by his absence, he was with

Donelle. But where was Donelle? The sun was setting, what should be

done?

Jo decided to wait until the sun had gone wholly down before she took

any steps. She was not one to set tongues wagging.

It was nearing sundown when Marcel Longville, standing by her kitchen

window, saw Donelle coming toward the house. The Captain was at Dan's

Place. Donelle walked slowly, and when she saw Marcel, smiled wanly and

opened the door.

"Marcel," she began, and her voice was tired and thin, "I want you to do

something for me. I want you to--to tell a lie for me."

"Why, child, what's the matter?"

"Marcel, Mamsey thought I was here last night. Will you please tell her

I was?"

Marcel's hands were in biscuit dough; she leaned forward heavily, and

the soft, light mass rose half-way up her arms.

"Lord! child, where were you last night? I thought you were keeping my

boarder as well as your own. Mam'selle just stopped here; she looked

queer enough when she found you were not here. There's no use of the

lie, child. She knows."

For a moment Donelle looked as though nothing mattered, as if the earth

had slipped from beneath her feet.

From Gavot's window she had seen the _River Queen_ depart with its two

passengers from Point of Pines. Tom had not been visible since

daybreak, the world had drifted away. Alone, in space, Donelle waited,

looking dumbly at Marcel.

"Where were you, child?"

"I was at Tom's cabin. I'm married to him. Father Mantelle married us."

Marcel raised herself, the dough clinging to her hands. She shook it

off, tore it off, went to a bucket of water and soaked it off, then sank

into a chair.

"I'm fainting," she announced in a businesslike tone, and seemed, for an

instant, to have lost consciousness.

This brought Donelle to her senses, she sprang to Marcel and put her arm

around the limp form.

"It's quite true," she faltered, "but of course you could not know. All

my life has happened to me since yesterday morning. I've got used to

it, but I forgot you did not know. Nothing is any use now, nothing need

be hidden. I am going back to Mamsey and tell her

everything--everything."

Marcel was reviving. She still lay on the young, protecting arm, her

eyes fastened on the white, sad face above her.

"You better go slow, Donelle, when you tell Mam'selle. You don't want

to stop her heart," she cautioned.

"No, I do not want to stop her heart. But I'm going to tell her

everything, beginning from the time I came back from the Walled House,

after Pierre Gavot told me--who I was! I can tell her now because it

does not matter; nothing matters since I'm married to Tom Gavot."

"It will kill her, Donelle! Mam'selle brought you from the place where

she hid you. She's had high hopes for you. It will kill her to know

you're married to Tom. Whatever made this happen?"

"Why, whatever makes such things happen to any one?" Donelle sighed.

Then: "If you are better, I'm going now to Mamsey."

"And I'm going with you!"

Marcel sprang to her feet.

"Come, I'm ready," she said, wrapping her rough shawl about her head and

shoulders.

And together they went to Jo, followed by poor Nick.

They found Jo sitting in the living room, knitting, knitting. Every

nerve was strained, but outwardly she was calm as ever.

"Well, child," she said as they entered, "you look worn to the death.

You need not talk now unless you want to." She rose and went to

Donelle.

"I want to, Mamsey. I want to."

"And you want Marcel to stay?" Jo spoke only to the girl. No one

entered the sacred precincts of her deepest love when Donelle needed

her.

"Yes, I want her, too, Mamsey, because she is your friend and mine."

Marcel blinked her tears back and sat down. Jo went back to her chair

and Donelle dropped beside her and quietly told her pitiful story; both

women sat like dead figures while they listened.

"You see, Mamsey, there was no other way, I had to do something quick.

But," and here she smiled dimly, "there must have been some reason for

what happened. Maybe the love was so big it caught him and would not

let him go. I do not know, but just as you have kept still about my

father after he left you, so I am going to keep still about my man. Tom

knows, you, and now Marcel Longville, know. No one else matters, shall

ever matter!"

But Jo was rousing herself. Her deep eyes flamed, she forgot Marcel,

she leaned over the girl at her feet.

"How did you know your father left me?" she whispered.

"Pierre Gavot told me!"

"When?"

Donelle described the scene on the road by the Walled House, but she

withheld the ugly word.

"And you came back because of that? You believed I was----"

"I knew you were my mother, and I could not hurt you as my father had.

You had never hurt him. I had to do his part. But now, Mamsey, I am

glad, oh! so glad, for now I understand everything that life meant for

me. I'm safe here with you and Tom and I mean to--pay--pay. You know I

always said I would pay, if I were part of life, and I will!"

Jo got up unsteadily. She seemed tall and menacing, her breath came

hard and quick.

"Whose step is that outside?" she asked suddenly. The two had not

noticed, but to Jo's "Come" Father Mantelle entered. He meant to make

sure that all was well; he had seen Mam'selle return and had come as

soon as he could.

"Father," Jo said solemnly, "take a seat. I am going to confess! Once

you would not give me an opportunity, now I am going to take it."

Her trembling hand lay upon Donelle's head. The girl did not move.

"This child is not mine. I swear it before my God. Her father left me

for another woman. Marcel can testify to that. My heart broke within

me, and later, when my poor sister died, I went away. I went to--to

Langley's cabin in the woods. I fought out my trouble there, and then

came back to my years of labour, that you all know of. I never knew,

until long after, the black thoughts that were held against me. I lived

alone--alone." Here Jo rose majestically, threw back her head, and let

her flaming eyes rest upon the two petrified listeners. Her hand was

still touching with a marvellously gentle touch the bent head of

Donelle, who was crouched on the floor at her feet, and was listening,

listening, her breath coming in quick, soft little gasps.

"And then," the stern voice went on, "Pierre Gavot did me the most

hideous wrong a man can do a woman, Gavot, Pierre Gavot, a man unworthy

of looking at an honest woman, offered to--to marry me, for my money!

He sought to get control of the only thing that I had won from life for

my own protection. But out of his foul lips something was sent to guide

me. He somehow made me see that I might yet have what my soul had

hungered and almost died for--a child! I went to St. Michael's. I meant

to take what some other woman had disinherited. I meant to take a

man-child, because I felt I could not see another woman endure what I

had endured! But God worked a miracle. He drove me aside, He

sent"--and here Jo's eyes fell upon Donelle with a glance of supreme

pity and of worship--"He sent this girl to me, I found her in the woods.

During the weeks of her sickness, which followed her coming to my house,

she revealed--her identity. It was marvellous. I was frightened, but

in my soul I knew God was having His way with me. He had sent me the

child of the man I had loved, of the woman who had betrayed me!

"I went, when I could, to St. Michael's and got the Sisters' story, and

I found----" Jo paused. Even now she hesitated before delivering her

best beloved to the danger she long had feared. Then she remembered Tom

Gavot and lifted her eyes.

"This girl's father had been accused of taking the life of his wife. He

was bringing his child to me because he knew I would understand. He

died before he could reach me. But a man, who, before God, I believe

was the guilty one, was after the girl, wanted to get possession of her.

For what reason, who can tell? The Sisters saved her. When I took her,

I tried to save her by giving her my name. I felt that I was less

harmful to her than--than the things the world might say. But I see,"

poor Jo's voice quivered, almost broke, "I see I was wrong. How could I

prove my belief in the innocence of Henry Langley, though I could stake

my soul's salvation on my belief that he did not kill his wife?"

Donelle was slowly rising to her feet. A dazed but brilliant light

flooded her eyes, she reached out to Jo as she used to do in those first

nights of delirium and fever.

"Mamsey, Mamsey, he did not! It was this way. My father came into the

cabin, he had been hunting. My mother was there. I was there, and--and

the man! I cannot, oh! Mamsey, I cannot remember his name, but I hated

him. I was afraid. He used to say he would carry me off if--if I told!

When my father came into the cabin--I cannot remember it all, for I ran

and hid behind a door. But yes, I can remember this: the man said I

was--his! Then my father ran toward him and he screamed something, and

my mother," Donelle was crouching, looking beyond Mantelle and Marcel,

at what no eyes but hers could see, "and my mother cried out that what

the man said was a lie! And then my father and the man struggled. They

fought and the gun went off--and--and--my mother fell!

"Mamsey, I--I cannot remember the rest. I was always tired, always

going somewhere, but my father did not do that awful thing!"

A sudden stillness filled the dim room, a silence that hurt. Then Jo's

tones rang out like a clanging bell:

"Father, this girl is Tom Gavot's wife?"

"She is." The priest was as white as death. Marcel was silent.

"Then no harm can reach her from that man, wherever, whoever, he is?"

"None."

"And that boy took my girl believing what the world thinks is the

worst?" Jo's voice suddenly softened, her eyes dimmed. There was no

reply to this. Marcel was crying softly, persistently, her face covered

by her poor, wrinkled hands. The priest's white face shone in the

shadowy room.

Then Jo laughed and lifted Donelle up.

"Child, you have seen the worst and the best in man. We still have Tom

Gavot and he will keep all harm from you." Then she turned to Marcel.

"Margot would have been proud of Tom, could she have known," she said.

Marcel groped her way across the room. Her eyes were hidden, her sobs

choked her.

"Mam'selle," she faltered, "Mam'selle Jo!"

Then the two women clung together. Father Mantelle watched them. What

he thought no one could know, but a radiance overspread his face.

"Mam'selle Morey," he said quietly at last, "you have opened my eyes.

God's peace be with you."

Then, as if leaving a sacred place, he turned and went out into the

early evening.

Marcel soon followed, but she was not crying when she went. Donelle had

kissed her, Jo had held her hands and smiled into her eyes. Marcel had

received her blessing from them.

Then, when they were alone, Jo lighted the lamp and piled wood in the

stove.

"And now we will eat, child," she said. Donelle was still dazed,

trembling.

"I remember!" was what she kept repeating. "How strange, Mamsey, but I

see it clear and true after all these years."

"And now, forget it, Donelle. The vision was given to you from God. It

has done its work. We must forget the past." And for years it was

never talked of between them.

"But, Mamsey----"

"Not another word, Donelle. We must eat and then talk of Tom."

It was after eight when, the work indoors and out finished, Jo and

Donelle talked of Tom Gavot. By that time Donelle was quiet and

strangely at peace.

"All night, Mamsey, while Nick and I were in his cabin," she said, "he

was out in the rain! I crept to the window many times and always he was

there walking about or sitting by a little fire that he made in a dry

spot to warm his poor, wet body. Mamsey, he told me to put the bar

across the door, and I wanted to, but I did not." Donelle's eyes shone.

"Somehow I felt safer with the bar off. And then, when it was morning,

Tom was gone."

"He will come again!" breathed Jo, her breast heaving. "And what then

will you do with him, child?"

"I do not know, Mamsey."

"He has done the greatest thing for you that it is possible for man to

do."

"Yes, I know, I know. But, Mamsey," the agony of deadly hurt shook

Donelle's voice, "Mamsey, for a little time I want, I must stay with

you. And we must never speak of the other! You kept still when, when my

father----"

"Yes, yes, Donelle, I understand," Jo clutched the girl to her. "You

shall stay with me for a little time, but I think the day will come when

you will go to Tom Gavot on bended knees."

"Perhaps, Mamsey, perhaps. I love Tom for his great goodness. I see

him always, so safe, so kind, so splendid, but just now---- Oh!

Mamsey," the girl shuddered, "the love has me! I know I am wrong and

wicked to let it hold me. I know I was selfish and bad to let Tom save

me. You see I had to do something quick; I was so alone. But by and

by, Mamsey, the way will be easier and then I will think only of Tom

Gavot. I promised."

In the upper chamber were a few articles belonging to Norval. Jo put

them under lock and key the following day, and set the room in its

sweet, waiting orderliness once more. The cabin in the wood too, was

securely closed against prying eyes and hands. A few sketches and

pictures were still there--"The Road" among them. The others had been

hastily gathered together. Books rested on a shelf and table, the

oil-stained coat hung on a peg. Jo longed, with human revolt, to set

fire to the place where she and Langley's child had known Gethsemane,

but her hand was held.

And still Tom Gavot did not return. No word came from him for a week,

and a great fear rose in Jo's heart. Then came a brief note to Donelle.

You know you can trust me. Father Mantelle has written to me about you

and Mam'selle; it's a big thing. And, Donelle, I'm never going to take

anything you don't want to give! I didn't marry you to hurt you. I did

it to help you. It seemed the only way, in the hurry.

I'm staying here in Quebec for a few months. Nothing can harm you now

and I am thinking of longer and bigger roads, farther away, where I can

make more money and get ahead. It can't harm you, Donelle, to tell you

that, always from the first time I saw you, I loved you better than

anything else. I love you now better than myself, my roads, anything!

And because I love you this way, I'm leaving you with Mam'selle.

How they all evaded Norval. It was as if he had never been. Point of

Pines was like that.

Since Tom had not killed him, he was able to blot him out.

"Tom is a man, a big one!" murmured Jo. "Donelle, you will be able to

see him by and by."

"Yes, Mamsey, by and by."

Then summer came warmly, brightly, over the hills, but with it stalked a

grim, black shadow. A shadow that no one dared speak about aloud,

though they whispered about it at Dan's Place, on the roads, and in the

quiet houses. Father Mantelle felt his old blood rising hot and fierce.

He remembered his France; but he remembered that his France had driven

his Order from its fasthold. He remembered England, with traditional

prejudice. Then he gazed into the depth of the black shadow that would

not depart, and preached "peace, peace," even before his people had

thought of anything else but peace. It was full summer. The States'

people filled Marcel's house, the Point of Pines hamlet throbbed and

waited. Then the shadow stood revealed--War! And from over the sea

England called to her sons. And they no longer paused. They lifted up

their stern young faces and turned from field, river, and woods, turned

back again Home!

And the women! At first they were stunned; horrified. It could not be!

It could not be!

Soon, soon, they were to learn the lesson of patience, bravery, and

heroism, but at first they saw only their boys going away. They saw the

deserted houses, farms, and river, their own great helplessness, their

agony of fear.

They saw their children grow old in a night with the acceptance of this

call they could not quite comprehend, but which could not be

disregarded. It was such a strange call, it sounded depths they,

themselves, had never known. It found an answer in their untried youth.

They simply had to go.

The old men were sobered, exalted. Even Pierre Gavot forgot the tavern,

put on his best clothes, and waited for Tom. Were all the others going,

and not his son? Gavot was full of anxiety. He did not want to drink

and forget. He was obliged to stay clearheaded and watch for Tom's

return. He even forgot himself and his demands on Tom. He'd manage

somehow, but he could not endure the shame of Tom's not going overseas.

It was an hour when souls were marching up to the Judgment Seat, each

according to its kind.

And one day Jo Morey met Pierre on the high-road, her burning

woman-heart not yet adjusted to the shock that was reverberating through

Canada.

"And so, Gavot," she said, "'tis taking this cause to bring you to your

senses? I hear of your talking of Tom as if he was a big thing. Why,

he's been big ever since he was born, and you took no heed."

Pierre drew back. Tom was not yet revealed as a hero, but Gavot could

not conceive of the boy being anything else.

"I'm ready to lay my only son on the altar," mumbled Pierre

grandiloquently. "I can sacrifice my all for my country."

Jo laughed, a hard, bitter laugh.

"You men!" she sneered, "ever since Abraham carried his poor boy up the

mountain to lay him on the altar, you've all been alike, you fathers!

You don't lay yourselves on the fire, not you! You don't even live your

decent best when you might, but you're ready enough with the sacrifice

of your young. Gavot, have you ever noticed that the Sarahs of the

world don't carry their sons to the altar?" Jo's feelings choked her.

Gavot looked at the woman before him with bleared and strangely serious

eyes. "That's wild talk," he mumbled, "bad talk. The right has to be

done. Could such as _I_ fight?"

Jo looked at the wretched creature by the roadside and she did not laugh

now. That intangible something that was settling on the faces of her

people hushed her.

*CHAPTER XX*

*GAVOT GETS HIS CALL*

And Tom Gavot was in Quebec. The alarm had stilled, for an instant, his

very heart, and the first terrible sense of fear that always came to him

in danger rose fiercely within him. His vivid imagination began to burn

and light the way on ahead. Horrors that he had read of and shuddered

at clutched at his brain and made it ache and throb.

No one knew of his sad marriage. He was going about his work bearing

his heavy secret as best he could, but now he began to view it in a new

light. He was married; he could remain behind with honour. But could

he?

"Going to enlist, Tom?" the head of his firm asked one day. "We'd hate

to lose you, we want to send you to Vancouver. There's something

special to do there. After all, the matter will soon be settled and we

need some boys here."

"I'm thinking it over," Tom replied, and so he was, over and over while

his quivering flesh challenged his bright spirit.

He walked daily in front of the Chateau Frontenac and watched and

watched the gallant boys, oh! so pitifully young, marching, drilling

with that look in their eyes that he could not comprehend. He went to

the Plains of Abraham and stood spellbound while the past and present

flayed his fevered imagination. He stood in front of the pictured

appeals that the Government posted on fences and buildings, and still

his flesh held his spirit captive. Then one day, quite unconsciously,

the Government reached him--him, Tom Gavot! There was a new picture

among the many, an old mother with a transfigured face, her hand on the

shoulder of her boy.

"My son, your country needs you."

Tom looked, and turned away. It did not seem fair to--to bully fellows

like that. He was angry, but he went back. The boy's face seemed to

grow like his own! Poor Tom, he could not realize that it was the face

of young Canada. The woman why, she was like the long-dead mother! Tom

felt sure, had his mother lived, that she would have been old and

saintly. Yes, saintly in spite of everything, for would not he have

seen to that? He, and his roads?

Tom thought of his roads, his peaceful, beautiful roads. Would he be

fit to plan them, travel on them if he let other men make them safe for

him?

Then one September day he said quietly--and the man to whom he spoke

never forgot his eyes--"I'm going to enlist. I'm going back to my home

place. I'd like to start with the boys from there." So Tom went back to

Point of Pines. He almost forgot that he was the husband of Donelle

Langley. He had taken farewell of many, many things without realizing

it: his own fear, his wife, his roads, his hope of Donelle.

He went back very simply, very quietly, and with that new look in his

sad young eyes he seemed like a stranger. Not for him was the glory and

the excitement. He was going because he dared not stay. His soul was

reaching out to an ideal that was screened in mystery, he had only just

courage enough to press on. Pierre looked at his boy pleadingly.

"Tom," he whimpered, "I'm not much of a father. I can't send you off

feeling proud of me, I've held you back all your life. But I can make

you feel easier about me by telling you that I've got work. You won't

have to fash yourself about that."

Tom regarded his father with a vague sense of gladness; then he reached

out falteringly and took his hand!

Marcel drew Tom to her heart. All her motherhood was up in arms.

"Tom," she whispered, "all through the years I've broken my heart over

those little graves on the hill, but to-day I thank God they're there!"

Tom held the weeping woman close.

"Aunt Marcel," he asked quietly, "if they, the children, were here,

instead of on the hill, would you bid them stay?"

"That's it, Tom, I couldn't, and that's why I thank God He's taken the

choice from me."

Tom kissed her reverently with a mighty tenderness.

"Aunt Marcel," he went on, "when I'm over there I shall think of you and

of the children on the hill. I'll try and do my best for you and them.

I may fail, but I'll try."

And at last Tom went up the road to Mam'selle and Donelle. They saw him

coming and met him on the way. Jo's head was bent; her breast heaving.

A terrible fear and bitterness made her face hard and almost cruel.

All night she had been recalling Tom's pitiful youth. And now this

renunciation! But on Donelle's face shone the glory of the day.

Quietly, firmly she took Tom's hands and lifted her eyes.

"Oh! but you are splendid," she whispered. "I thought perhaps you might

feel you ought to stay back for me! But, Tom, everything is all right

and safe! Always you are going to grow bigger, nearer, until you make

me forget everything else. Why, Tom now, now I would go with you on

your road, if I could! You must believe that, dear."

Tom looked at her. He saw the thrill of life, adventure, and youth

shake her. He saw with an old, old understanding that because he was

going away, alone, upon the road, he meant to her what he never could

have meant had he remained. He saw that his renunciation had awakened

her sympathy and admiration, but he saw that love lay dead in her eyes.

[Illustration: "Tom looked at her. He saw the thrill, of life, adventure

and youth shake her. He saw with an old, old understanding that because

he was going away, alone, upon the road, he meant to her what he never

could have meant had he remained."]

And then Tom bent and kissed her. He could in all honour because

something deep in his heart told him that he was indeed bidding her

good-bye.

"When I come back," he was saying, while he felt far, far away, "we'll

just try the road, Donelle. I know you'll do your part. And always keep

this in mind: when I look back home I'll see you at the other end of the

road, girl. Your eyes will have the yellow light in them that will

brighten the darkest night I'll ever tramp through. I had to tell you

that."

"Thank you, Tom."

"It wasn't the honest thing to marry you the way I did. I had no

right."

"Yes, you had, Tom. Yes. Yes!"

"No. I think we could have found a better way, if we had taken time,

but I was sort of blinded."

"And so was I, Tom, blinded and crazed."

"Donelle--"

"Yes, Tom."

"I've got to tell you something--now that I'm going. He--he came back

that night. He came to me and he would not believe, until I let him

look in the window to see you as you lay there asleep. He wanted to

tell me something, and I wouldn't let him! But, Donelle, before God, I

think we need not hate him and if he ever gets a chance let him tell you

what he wanted to tell me."

"Tom, oh! Tom!" Donelle was weeping now in Gavot's arms. "Thank you,

thank you, my own good Tom! And when you come back, I'll be waiting for

you, no matter what I hear."

But Tom understood. Again he bent and kissed her pretty hair, her

little white face, then gently pushed her toward Jo.

"Mam'selle," he said and smiled his good smile: "I'm going, with

heaven's help, to make up to my mother."

"You have, Tom, you have!" Jo rushed to him. "You have by your clean,

fine life and they have no right to take that young life; they have no

right, no right!"

But Tom went away, smiling, with the little company of Point of Pines'

men. The women watched the going with still faces and folded hands.

Those boys going on, on to what, they knew not; just going! Some looked

self-centred, proud, senselessly uplifted. Others looked grim, not

knowing all, but sensing it.

Tom looked at his group, his father, Marcel, Longville, Jo, and Donelle,

turned a last glance at the white, set face of Father Mantelle, and so

said good-bye to Point of Pines.

Together Jo and Donelle returned to the little white house. It was like

going back from a freshly made grave.

"I'll not help the bad business, no, not I!" vowed Mam'selle, the hard

look still upon her face. Donelle looked piteously at her.

"It is a great evil, a damnable sin; no words can make it right. For us

to work and forgive is but to help the sin along. I will not stand for

the cursed wrong."

"Mamsey, it is all wrong, but it is not their wrong, Tom's and all the

other boys. They are just doing what they have to: holding to that

something that won't let go of us. Mamsey, we must go along with them.

We cannot leave them alone. I don't quite see yet what we can do, but

Mamsey, we, too, must hold on. See, here is the loom. Spin, spin, dear

Mamsey."

"No, the loom stands still!" Jo shut her lips. But Donelle led her

forward.

"Mamsey, it will save us," she said, "save us. We must work all the

time; spin, weave, knit. We've got to. It is all we can do."

"Yes. And because we have always spun and woven and knitted, they are

going off there, those boys! Donelle, I will not touch the loom!"

But Donelle was placing her fingers on the frame.

Suddenly, groping for the threads, Jo said, while her voice broke:

"Where's Nick, child?"

"He's following Tom as far as he can, Mamsey. I did not call him back."

At that Jo bent her head until it rested on the loom.

"That's all dogs and women can do!" she moaned; "follow them as far as

they can."

"Yes, Mamsey, and catch up with them--somehow. We will, we will."

The two women clung together and wept until only grief was left, the

bitterness melted.

And afar in Egypt Anderson Law heard the summons and saw the blackening

cloud.

"I'm too old to take a gun," he muttered grimly, "but my place is home!

Every man to his hearth, now, unless he can serve his neighbour."

It was October when Law reached New York. In his long-deserted studio

lay much that claimed his immediate attention. Norval had had a key to

the apartment and had seen that it was kept ready for its absent master.

A mass of mail lay upon the table, among it a note from Norval himself.

ANDY, when you can, go to Point of Pines. If any man in God's world can

mend the mischief I made there, it is you! I went innocently enough and

at a time when I was down and out. I managed to evolve about as much

hell as possible. I don't expect you will ever be able to excuse or, in

any sense, justify my actions. I am only thinking of that little girl

of Alice Lindsay's, the only love of my life.

Law was petrified. This was a letter Norval had written from Point of

Pines, it had got no farther than New York, for Norval in his

abstraction had addressed it there.

For an instant even the war sank into insignificance as Law read on:

The divorce that Katherine desired was about to be consummated. I

reckoned without Katharine's sense of justice and duty, which got active

just when I thought the road was clear. Well, Andy, you know how

damnable truth can become when it is handled in the dark? Katherine

came to Point of Pines; saw Donelle alone. Need I say more? Only this,

Andy: I did not wrong the girl, I only loved her.

I've left a picture. I want you to see it before you leave for Canada.

You'll find it by your north window.

I'm going to the Adirondacks with Katherine. She's developed

tuberculosis, this is her only chance, and, short or long, I've sworn to

go the rest of the way with her.

Law went across the room to his north window. With fumbling hands he

uncovered the canvas standing there and placed it on an easel before he

dared look at it.

A bit of paper was attached to the picture. Law read:

"Fairer than morning, lovelier than the daylight."

Then standing in his coldest, most critical attitude, Anderson Law

feasted his eyes upon Donelle!

Not only the sweet, appealing beauty of the rare, girlish face held Law,

but the masterfulness of the hand that had reproduced it, clutched his

senses. Such colour and light! Why, for a moment it seemed almost as if

there were movement.

"Good God!" muttered Law. "I stayed in Egypt too long."

It was like him, however, to make ready at once to go to Point of Pines.

He did not write to Norval; how could he? Of course he disapproved

heartily of what he knew and suspected. No man, he reflected, has a

right to take chances at another's expense. Norval was a fool, a damned

fool, but he was no merely selfish wretch. That he could swear to. But

the girl--well, how could a man keep his senses cool with those eyes

fixed upon him?

"That white-flame sort," mused the man in the still room, "is the most

far reaching. There's so much soul along with the rest."

A week later the _River Queen_, rather dignifiedly, puffed up to the

wharf of Point of Pines. The sturdy boat was doing her bravest bit that

summer. She went loaded down the river; she panted back

contemplatively, knowing that she must bear yet other loads away. Away,

always, away!

"I want Mam'selle Jo Morey's," Anderson Law said as he was deposited,

with other freight and bags on the dock. "She takes boarders?"

Jean Duval frowned.

"She took one," he replied, "but he ran away. I'm thinking the Mam'selle

Jo is not reaching out for more."

"Then I will go to her," said Law in his most ingratiating manner; "she

shall not reach out for me."

Jo was in the barn, but Donelle stood by the gate, her fair, uncovered

head shining in the warm October light.

"I am Anderson Law!"

Donelle turned and her wide eyes grew dark.

"I have come late, I'm afraid, child," Law saw that his name was

familiar to the girl, saw her lips quiver, "but I'll do my best now to

mend the trouble. You must accept me for Alice Lindsay's sake."

Bluntly, but with grave tenderness, he put out his hand.

There are some people who come into the world for no other reason,

apparently, than to lighten the burdens of others. The mere sight of

them is the signal for the shifting of heavy loads. Weary, lost ones

know their deliverers. Donelle gave a long, long look, her eyes filled

with sudden and sadly-suppressed tears. All the weight she had borne

since the time she had entered the Walled House cried out for support.

"Oh! I am so glad you've come. So glad!"

And Donelle's hands lay in Law's.

And so Mam'selle found them, clinging to each other like shipwrecked

souls, when she came up with Nick wheezing at her heels. Nick wheezed

now, there was no denying it.

"And, sir, you are----?" she said, standing with her feet astride, her

hands reaching down to where her father's old pockets used to be.

"A boarder, Mam'selle, heaven willing."

"I can take no more boarders, sir. But I can hitch up Molly and drive

you to Captain Longville's."

"Mam'selle Morey, I am Alice Lindsay's friend, Anderson Law."

Then Jo, who had always been a burden-bearer herself, scented another of

her kind. She came a step nearer. Her lifted brows disclosed her

wonderful eyes, the eyes of a woman who had suffered and made no cry.

Law held her by a long glance; a searching glance.

"Mam'selle," he said; "I half believe you will reconsider and take me

in."

"I half believe I will!" Jo's lips twitched.

Her instinct guided her.

"The upper chamber is ready," she added, "and the noon meal is about to

be set on the table."

"And I'll show you the way!" Donelle went on before Law, a new look

upon her face, a gladder look than had rested there for many a day.

*CHAPTER XXI*

*DONELLE AT LAST SEES TOM*

"The greatest wrong Norval did was to leave you in the dark."

Law and Donelle sat in the wood-cabin, and the room was warm and bright.

Norval's deserted pictures were hung in good light and now some of Law's

own had also found a place on the rough walls.

"You are woman enough to have understood."

"Yes, I would have understood," Donelle replied from her seat near the

window. She was knitting; knitting, always knitting.

"Love is a thing you cannot always manage. I would have understood.

Love just came to us and when it got hurt, I did wrong in going to Tom

Gavot, my husband. But you see he had helped me before. It was wrong,

but there did not seem to be any other way. I think I felt I had to

make it impossible--for--for Mr. Norval to do anything."

"But, my child, of course--Norval wronged you by withholding the whole

truth. Still, I wish he could have spoken for himself, not left it for

me."

"You have done it beautifully, Man-Andy!"

The name fell lingeringly from Donelle's lips. Law had urged her to call

him by it.

It was February now and still Law lingered. He could hardly have told

why, but Canada seemed more homelike to him than the States. He was one

of the first to resent his country's holding back from entering the

terrific struggle that was sucking the other countries into its hellish

maw.

"If I cannot bear a gun," Law often vowed in Jo's upper chamber, "I'll

hang around close to them who are bearing them. The boys will be coming

back soon, some of the hurt chaps, I'll lend a hand here in Canada."

So he remained and the little white house was happy in its welcome.

Law went among the people. He became a constant visitor in Father

Mantelle's house; went with the old priest to the homes, already

bereaved, because of the son or father who had marched away and would

never come back. The war dealt harshly with the men of Canada who,

counting not the cost, went grimly to the front and took the heavier

blows with no thought of turning back.

"And, Man-Andy," Donelle was talking quietly while Law smoked by the

fire, "I have often thought that Mr. Norval"--the stilted words were

shy--"might have felt that I came first. He might have."

"I think he might." The cloud of smoke rose higher. "That would have

been like him."

"But it wouldn't have been right. The big love we couldn't help, but he

once told me that it was our part to keep it holy. If--if--he forgot

for a minute, Man-Andy, it was for me to remember. I think I was afraid

I might _not_, and that was why something drove me to Tom, my husband."

Law winced at the constant reiteration of the "husband." It was as if

she were forcing him to keep the facts clearly in mind.

"I wouldn't have had my love be anything but what I knew him, Man-Andy.

And now I am almost happy thinking of him doing what is right. It's

better, even if it is hard."

"Yes, I suppose so!" And Law knew whereof he spoke.

"But you?" he lifted his eyes to Donelle's white, sweet face.

"I? Why, it is all right for me, Man-Andy. You see, there are many

kinds of love, and Tom, my husband, why, I love him. He is strong, and

oh! so safe. When his country does not need him any more, I will make

him happy. I can. I am sure I can, for Tom is not one who wants all.

He has had so little in his life that he will be glad, very glad with

me. He has the big love, too, Man-Andy."

"You are quite beyond me!" muttered Law. "You and your Mam'selle, you

are a pair."

"I love to think that. Mam'selle has been more than a mother to me. I

am so glad you know all about us."

Law did know, from Father Mantelle.

"I feel, wrong as it may seem," the priest had once confided to Law,

"like making the sign of the cross whenever I come in the presence of

Mam'selle Morey."

"Well, crosses have apparently been quite in her line," Law laughed

back, "she'd naturally take it as a countersign."

Law had a habit that reminded Jo of Langley, of Donelle and, indeed now

that she reflected, of others besides, who knew her more or less

intimately. He would sit and watch her while she worked and then,

without rhyme or reason, smile. Often, indeed, he laughed.

"Am I so amusing?" she asked Law once.

"Not so amusing, Mam'selle, as consumedly comical."

"Comical, Mr. Law?" Jo frowned.

"No good in scowling, Mam'selle. I mean no reflection. The fact is,

you've taken us all into camp, we might as well laugh."

"Camp, Mr. Law?" The brows lifted.

"Yes, you made us look like small beer and then you forgive us, and

label us champagne!"

"Mr. Law, you talk!" Jo sniffed.

"I certainly do, Mam'selle."

"I do not understand your tongue."

"I'll wager a dollar to a doughnut that Donelle does."

"Umph! Well, then, Donelle, just you tell me what he means."

They were all sitting around the hot stove, a winter storm howling

outside.

"I'm afraid I cannot very well, Mamsey. But I know what he means."

"Do your best, child. I hate to be kept guessing."

"Well, it is something like this:" Donelle looked at Law, getting

guidance from his eyes, "some people, not as blessed as you, Mamsey,

might not have forgiven all those years when no one knew! You were so

big and silent and brave, you made them all look pretty small. And now

when they do know, you somehow let them do the large, kind things that

you make possible, and you stand aside, praising them."

"Nonsense!" Jo snapped. "Who's blowing my horn, I'd like to know?"

"Oh! Mamsey, it's your horn, but you let others think it isn't. Who

was it that made Father Mantelle come out and compel his people to go

overseas?"

"That's silly, Donelle. When he came to his senses, he saw he'd be

mobbed if he didn't."

"Oh! Mamsey, you bullied him outrageously. And who sees to old Pierre?"

"You, child. You can't see your husband's father want, when it's

rheumatism, not bad whiskey, that's laying him low."

"Oh! Mamsey! And who got Marcel little flags to put on--on those

graves on the hill because it would make her feel proud?"

"Donelle you _are_ daft. Marcel felt she had to do something to make it

her war, too, and she's too busy to weave and knit. Why"--and here Jo

turned to Law whose eyes were twinkling through the smoke that nearly

hid his face--"in old times the people around here used to light fires

on St. John's Day in front of their houses, to show there had been a

death. I told Marcel about that and she herself thought of the flags.

She would have given her children if they had lived; she's brought

herself, like the rest of us, to see there is nothing else to do but

give and give!"

Mam'selle choked over her hurried words and Law suddenly changed the

subject.

"Mam'selle," he asked, "is there a chimney place behind this red-hot

monster?" he kicked the stove.

"There is, Mr. Law, one about twice too large for the house."

"Let's take the stove down and have the chimney place!"

"Take the stove down?" Jo dropped ten stitches. "Take that stove down!

Why, you don't know what it cost me! I--I am proud of that stove."

"Really, Mam'selle?"

"Well, I used to be prouder than I am now. It is a heap of trouble to

keep clean, but it's going to stay where it is. When things cost what

that did, they stay. It's like Nick and the little red cow----"

"And me!" put in Donelle softly.

"You ought to be ashamed, Donelle," Jo turned indignant eyes upon her,

"putting yourself beside stoves and dogs and cows."

"And other things that cost too much. Oh! Mamsey."

And still Law stayed on, the peace in his eyes growing each day deeper,

surer. He felt, in a vague way, as Norval had, the sense of _living_

for the first time in his life. The wood-cabin he called the

co-operative workshop. In time he got Donelle to play there for him.

At first she tried and failed. Weeping, she looked at him helplessly and

put her violin aside.

"You have no right," he said to her with infinite tenderness, "to let

any earthly thing kill the gift God gave you."

The philosophy that had upheld poor Law had given him courage to pass it

on to others. It now drove Donelle to her duty.

Old Revelle had prophesied that suffering would develop her and her

talent; and it was doing so. Her face became wonderfully strong and fine

as the months dragged on and the Fear grew in waiting hearts. In

forgetting herself she made place for others and they came to her

faithfully. Her music was heard in many a hill cabin; down by the

river, where the older men worked, while their thoughts were overseas.

She taught little children, helped make the pitiful black dresses which

meant so much to the lonely poor who had given their all and had so

little with which to show respect to their sacred dead.

Jo watched her girl with eyes that often ached from unshed tears.

"It will be the death of her," she confided to Anderson Law. "She'll

break."

"No," Law returned, "she will not break. She's as firm and true as

steel; she's getting ready."

"Ready for what?" Jo's voice shook.

"For life. So many, Mam'selle, simply get ready to live. Life is going

to use this little Donelle."

"Men have caused a deal of trouble for women," Jo remarked irrelevantly.

"Ah! there you have us, Mam'selle. The best of us know that we're bad

bunglers. Most of us, in our souls, are begging your pardon."

"Well, you're all boys, mere children." Jo was clicking her needles

like mad. "Sometimes I think it would settle the whole question if we

could bunch all the men in one man and give him a good spanking."

Law's eyes twinkled.

"And after that, after the spanking, Mam'selle, what would you do?"

"Give him an extra dose of jam, like as not. We're fools, every last one

of us, God help us!"

"Yes, thank God, you are!"

It was March when a letter came from Norval that sent Law to the

wood-cabin and to his knees.