ANDY:

It's over! Poor Katherine! I'm going to leave her body here under the

snow and the pines. It came quite suddenly at the last. She just could

not stand it.

I'm glad I went the rest of the way with her. I never could have done

it except that you showed me the path. You've been here with me close,

old friend, all these months. I wonder if you can understand me when I

say that I am glad for Katherine, for her alone, that she is safe under

the snow? It is easier to think of her so, than to remember the losing

battle she waged for her health. I'm sure my being here made her less

lonely, and she grew so tender and generous, so understanding.

She begged me to return to Point of Pines. She never knew about Gavot.

And now, Andy, before you get this, I will be on my way over-seas to

offer what I have to France. I'm strong, well, and have nothing to hold

me back. I can do something there, I'm sure.

Law looked at the date on the letter, then noticed that the postmark was

nearly a month later. There was no need to hurry back; Norval was gone.

Law did not tell Donelle or Jo of his news. Everything was being tossed

into the seething pot; the outcome must be awaited with patience and

whatever courage one could muster.

When spring came the little _River Queen_ came regularly to the dock.

She came quietly, reverently, bearing now her children home: the sick,

the tired, the hopelessly maimed, the boys who had borne the brunt of

battle and had escaped with enough mind and body to come back. Some of

them had news of others; they had details that waiting hearts craved.

Under the soft skies of spring they told their brave stories so simply;

oh! so divinely simply. The bravado, the jest were stilled; they had

seen and suffered too much to dwell upon glory or upon the tales of

adventure.

Poor old Pierre went from one to another with his question:

"Tell me about my Tom."

Tom had been transferred here, there, and everywhere. Only an

occasional comrade who had left home with him had been near him

overseas. But one or two had stories about Tom that soon became public

property.

"Old Tom was always talking about being afraid," said one. "In the

trenches, while we were waiting for orders, he'd beg us to see that if

he were a coward his home folks might not know the truth. He always

expected to be the cur, and then, when the order came, up the old duffer

would get and scramble to the front as if he was hell-bound for suicide.

It got to be a joke and the funny part was, when it was over, he never

seemed to know he'd done the decent thing. He'd ask us how he had

acted. He'd believe anything we told him. After awhile we got to

telling him the truth."

Marcel wept beside her little row of graves after hearing about Tom and

wished, at last, that a son of her own could be near that poor Tom of

Margot's.

Jo's eyes shone and she looked at Donelle. She felt the girl's big

heart throb with pity, but she knew full well that even in his tragic

hour of triumph Tom had not called forth Donelle's love.

Sometimes she was almost angry at Donelle. Why could not the girl see

what she had won, and glory in it? What kind of reward was it to be for

Tom to have her "keep her promise?"

"Women were not worthy of men!" she blurted out to Anderson Law. "Think

of those young creatures offering all they have to make a world safe for

a lot of useless women!'

"They ought to be spanked, the useless women," Anderson remarked

solemnly.

"That they should!" agreed Jo.

"Ah, well, Mam'selle," Law's face grew stern, "we are all, men and

women, getting our punishment alike. But what has the rebel, Donelle,

now done?"

"She will not see Tom Gavot, her husband, as he is! She only sees him

as a brave soldier. Instead, he is a man!"

"Ah! Mam'selle Jo, wait until he comes home and _needs her_. Then she

will give him the best she has to give. Is that not enough?"

"No!" Jo exploded. "No! it is not. She ought to give him, poor lad,

what she has not in her power to give."

Then they both laughed.

It was full summer when the word came that Tom Gavot had made the

supreme sacrifice.

Law brought the official announcement, the bald, hurting fact. He had,

on his way past Dan's Place, rescued Pierre before he had begun

drinking.

"Come to Mam'selle Morey's," he commanded calmly. "I have news of your

boy."

"And he is still brave? It is good news?"

Gavot shuffled on beside Law.

"He's still brave, yes."

"That's good; that's good. Tom was always one who began by trembling

and ended like iron."

Jo was at her loom, Donelle at her knitting, when the two men entered

the sunny home-room of the little white house.

"This has come," said Law, and reverently held up the envelope.

They all knew what it was. In Point of Pines the bolt had fallen too

often to be misunderstood. By that time every heart was waiting;

waiting.

"It's Tom?" asked Donelle and her face shone like a frozen, white thing

in the cheerful room.

Law read the few terrible words that could not soften the blow, though

they tried hard to do so.

"The war office regrets to announce----"

Pierre staggered to his feet.

"It's a lie!" he said thickly, "a lie!" Then he began to weep aloud

like a frightened child.

Law went to him and shook him roughly.

"Stop that!" he said sternly. "Can't you try to be worthy of your boy?"

"But--but I wanted him to know how I have been trying, even when I

couldn't quite make it. And now----"

"Perhaps he does know," Law spoke more softly, "perhaps he does."

Jo did not move, but her eyes seemed to reflect all the misery of her

stricken country.

"Mam'selle, can you not help us?" Law spoke from his place beside the

groaning Pierre.

"I--I'm afraid not, Mr. Law. Not just now." Poor Jo; for the first

time in her life she was overpowered. "I somehow," she spoke as if to

herself, "I somehow thought I understood how it felt when I saw the

others. But I didn't; I didn't." Then she turned to Donelle. "Where

are you going?" she asked.

"Mamsey, I'm going down to--to Tom's hut. It seems as if he will be

there."

Then Jo bent her head.

"Go, child," she said with a break in her hard voice. "Go."

And later Law found Donelle there in the little river-hut. She was

sitting by the open door, her face, tearless and tragically white,

turned to the river whose tide was coming in with that silent, mighty

rush that almost took away the breath of any one who might be watching.

"Dear, little girl!" said Law soothingly, taking his place at her feet,

"I wish you would cry."

"Cry? Why, Man-Andy, I cannot cry."

She was holding an old coat of Tom's, the one he had discarded for the

uniform of his country.

"I wish we could have known just how he went--my Tom!"

"We may some day, child. But this we both know: he went a hero."

"Yes, I'm sure of that. He would be afraid, but he would do the big

thing. He was like that. I think such men are the bravest. Listen,

Man-Andy!"

Law listened. The strange, swift, silent, incoming tide filled his

ears.

"I have been thinking," Donelle whispered, "thinking as I sat here of a

wide, shining road and a great many, many men and boys rushing along it

making the sound of the river. I think it is that way with the many

boys who have died so suddenly; so soon. They are hurrying along some

safe, happy road; and oh! Man-Andy, it seems as if it were Tom's road.

All the afternoon as I have been sitting here in the only place he ever

knew as home," Law glanced back into the pitiful, plain, empty room, "I

have seen Tom at the head of the great crowd going on and on. He seems

to be leading them, showing them the way over the road he loved."

The water was covering the highest black rocks, the rushing, still sound

was indeed like the noise of boyish feet hurrying eagerly home.

Law stood up and took Donelle in his arms. She frightened him by her

awful calm.

"Little girl," he whispered, "try to cry. For God's sake, try to cry!"

"But, Man-Andy, how can I? If only I could have kissed him just once so

he could have remembered----" And then Donelle broke down. She relaxed

in Law's arms; she clung to him sobbing softly, wildly.

"Why, Man-Andy, I'm going to remember always that I couldn't give him

what he deserved most in all the world."

"My dear, my dear! You gave him of your best, he understands that now

as he could not before."

"And oh!" here Donelle lifted her tear-stained face, "I'm so thankful I

did not bar the door against him."

Law thought her mind was wandering.

"What door, child?" he asked.

"This door, the night we were married. He--he knew, I am sure he knew,

as he watched outside, that I trusted him."

Law's eyes dropped.

"Your husband was a big man," was all he said.

*CHAPTER XXII*

*NORVAL COMES BACK*

Anderson Law was sawing wood behind Mam'selle's little white house. He

was mighty proud of his success in manual labour; to help Jo with her

wood pile was a delight, altruistically and vaingloriously.

The summer with its heart throbs had made people indifferent to the

winter on ahead, but the days were growing colder and shorter and even

the most careless were aware that some provision must be made at once if

one were to escape needless suffering.

Law was thinking as he worked, and occasionally wiped the perspiration

from his brow. There were so many things to think about in Point of

Pines; to think about, smile about tenderly, and grieve about.

There was old Pierre, the Redeemed, he was called now. Since Tom's

going the wretched father had ceased drinking, was housed by Father

Mantelle, and had fallen into a gentle, vague state that called forth

pity and tolerance.

Early and late he was on the highway with his shovel or rake making the

road easy for the feet of his boy!

If any one came over the hill into Point of Pines the wandering, bleary

eyes would be raised and the one question would break from the trembling

lips: "Have you seen my Tom?"

If any one went away over the hill, Pierre had a message:

"Tell my Tom I'm filling in the ruts. He won't find it such hard

travelling when he comes back."

Anderson Law often kept old Gavot company--for Tom's sake. Even

Mam'selle had forgiven him and, quite secretly, helped the priest in his

generous support.

The Longvilles, the Captain at least, had forsaken Pierre. Marcel, poor

soul, gave what, and when, she could.

As Law bent to his task at the wood pile, the priest hailed him from the

road.

"I go now," he explained as he declined the invitation to enter, "to

pray for rain. The forest fires are bad, but until the crops were in I

would not pray."

So simply did the cure say this that Law refrained from smiling, but he

did say, looking afar to where the heavy smoke-cloud hung above the

trees:

"Ah! well, Father, now that the harvest is in, you had better give the

Lord a free hand or there will be a sad pay-day on ahead."

"I go to pray," Mantelle rejoined and passed on.

Amused and thoughtful, Law looked after the tall, thin, bent figure. He

recalled how the patient old soul taught and encouraged the children,

held the older ones--children too, in their simplicity and

superstition--to the plain, common paths of life with what success he

might; remembered how day or night he travelled near and far to watch

with the dying or comfort those from whom death had torn their sacredest

and best.

"At such," Law thought, "one cannot scoff."

And just then a fragrant odour came to Anderson Law. Pleasant and

welcome it was. He looked up and, at a little distance, saw Mam'selle

at her outdoor oven, pushing into its yawning mouth a tray of noble

loaves of bread.

Down went Law's saw, out came his sketching pad; Jo before that oven was

a sight for the reverent.

"Eighteen loaves!" called Mam'selle, not realizing that she was becoming

immortal, "eighteen loaves at a lick, Mr. Law, and but a drop in the

bucket. The boys, whatever else was knocked out of them over there,

managed to keep their stomachs. There's no filling the lads up, but the

good Lord knows that it's little enough for us to do, trying to fill

them."

"To-morrow will be Friday," cried a cheery young voice from the highway,

"so we must fish to-day, Mam'selle. I'm off to the river, but I swear I

cannot get past the smell of your oven. And I wanted to tell you, I

have my old job back. Hereafter I swing the light from the dock."

Law and Jo turned. A boy in the garb of a great country stood leaning

on his crutches, smiling; smiling, but with that look in his eyes that

was never to depart. The look the trenches had put there; the hall mark

of the world's wrong to its young.

"Ah! it's that nice boy, Jean," laughed Jo eagerly. "Wait, son," the

wounded and sick were all "sons" to Mam'selle now, "wait, here is a

large, brown, hot loaf. Take it along to munch while you catch your

fish. And it's glad I am about the job, Jean. No one ever swung the

lantern as you did. The _River Queen_ will perk up when she sees you

back."

Jean laughed and patted his hot loaf of bread.

"Ah! Mam'selle. And to think I used to run from you when I was a silly

lout of a kid. I did not know your great heart then, Mam'selle," he

said.

The boyish eyes were lifted to Jo's face as she pressed the crisp loaf

in his bag.

"It's my turn to run after you now," she said softly. "It is worth the

run, though, son. You're good sorts, the lot of you."

Law was watching and listening. Jo affected him strangely. Lately he

was aware of a glow whenever he got to thinking of her. If he meant

ever to escape from Point of Pines he had better make a hasty retreat.

That was what the glow meant. As if to challenge this state of mind Jo

now came toward him.

"It's a noble pile you've cut, Mr. Law," she said. "For a painter-man

you're not the useless truck one might expect. Mr. Law, I'll think of

you often when I burn this wood. And now that I'm rather soft in my

feelings for your sex--those hurt boys have pleaded for you--I might as

well tell you that I'm going to put my stove in the outhouse and open up

the chimney in the living room."

"Mam'selle! This is surrender indeed! A triumph of soul over matter!"

cried Law.

"This winter you can think of me toasting my shins and shivering up the

back, Mr. Law." Jo smiled broadly.

Anderson Law threw his head back and laughed. Jo's plain, unvarnished

Anglo-Saxon was like a northwest wind to his mind.

And just then the postman jogged in sight, reading the postcards with

relish and letting his old horse find his own way along the road.

"Where is Donelle?" Law was asking as the mail man paused at the gate.

Jo's eyes darkened.

"Knitting and thinking down in the river-cabin. Nick's with her. Mr.

Law, there are times when I think that dog has a soul."

"I never doubt it, Mam'selle. One look in his eyes is enough. But

what, now, about Nick?"

"When he thinks the child has been alone long enough he goes after her.

She says he tugs at her skirt until she follows. He cries if she holds

back. Mr. Law, I fear Donelle is--is--taking to Tom's road."

Poor Jo turned away.

"Nonsense, Mam'selle."

Law often thought this, too, so his denial was doubly intense.

"We'll find a way yet to get Donelle on the road that belongs to her.

Ah! a letter," he broke in, seeing the postman waving an envelope from

the cart.

Law went forward and took the letter, tore it open, and read the few

words enclosed. It was from his lawyer. For a moment Anderson Law

could not speak. The bright day seemed suddenly to darken. Then he

said slowly, though his thoughts were swift:

"Mam'selle, Jim Norval is back in New York. He's not able to see just

now; something's gone wrong with his eyes, and his legs, too. There's

hope, but I must go." Then, as if inspired, "Mam'selle, I must take

Donelle."

"No!" Jo sprang back as if Law had hit her.

"Mam'selle, I must take Donelle. Have these hurt boys, here, not taught

you a lesson?"

"But, Mr. Law, this is not decent."

"Norval's wife died last summer, Mam'selle. He went abroad because there

was nothing else for him to do. Now may I have Donelle?"

Jo reflected.

"But it will kill her," she said half-heartedly, "the strangeness. And

what may happen."

"It will cure her," Law went on; "no matter what happens. She's part of

it all; she must bear what is hers."

"Mr. Law----"

"Ah! Mam'selle," and here Anderson Law took Jo's hand, "there is so

little, after all, that we older ones can do for them. May I have

Donelle?"

"Yes. God help us all, Mr. Law." And poor Jo bowed her head.

"Thank you, Mam'selle. The conventions have all crumbled, we're all

stripped down to our bare souls. We cannot afford to waste time looking

forward or back. Keep that fire burning on the opened hearth,

Mam'selle. Some of us will come back to you, God willing, soon. We

must hurry. See! there is the child coming up the Right of Way, Nick

clinging to her skirt. Donelle!"

Law called to her and went to meet her.

"Child, I'm going to take you to the States with me. Norval needs you!"

Just for an instant the white face twitched and the yellow eyes

darkened.

"When do we go?" was all the cold lips said. Never a doubt; never a

pause.

"What did I tell you?" Law turned to Jo. "Conventions be damned!

"To-day we start, Donelle. And, Mam'selle, just you 'tend to that

fire!"

When Norval had been landed in New York he was taken to a hospital--to

die. But he did not die, though he tried hard enough, and gave no end

of trouble to his doctors and nurses.

"Whom shall we send for?" he was asked when, helpless and blinded, he

lay in the small, quiet, white room.

"Am I going west?" The phrase clung like an idiom of a foreign

language.

"Good Lord, man, no! You're getting on rippingly." The young house

doctor was tireless in his service to this stricken man.

"Then send for no one. I'm not eager to have a chance acquaintance

gaping at my useless legs and sightless eyes."

"But you're going to come around all right. It's the effect of shock,

you know. How about your relatives?"

"Haven't got any, thank the Lord." Norval's chin stiffened. The young

doctor gripped the clasped hands on the counterpane.

"I wish you'd try a bit to buck up," he said.

"What for?"

"Well, just for your country's sake."

"My country! Why isn't my country where I have been, helping to lower

the temperature of hell?"

The bitter tone rang through the words. Norval was glad for the company

of this young doctor; glad to have someone, who, really did not matter,

share with him the moments when the memory of horrors he had witnessed

overwhelmed him.

"Our country is going to be there soon!" The doctor's voice was

strained. "A big country like this has to go slow."

"Slow be damned! This is no time to put on brakes. Are they, are they

actually steaming up, Burke? You're not saying this to--to quiet my

nerves?"

"No. Your nerves are settling into shape. Yes, our country is heaving

from the inside."

"Thank God!" Norval sighed.

"And you bet, Mr. Norval, I'm going on the first ship if I have to go as

a stoker. If there's one blessed trick of my trade that can help

fellows like you, lead me to it!"

"Burke, you're a devilish good tonic."

A week later Norval had young Burke again to himself.

"Old man, I feel that I am not going west. It's rotten bad form for me

to be holding down this bed any longer. I suppose I could be moved?"

"Yes, Mr. Norval. It would do you good, I think you ought to make an

effort.

"I don't see why, old chap, but--here goes! Send for this man," he

named Law's lawyer. "There is only one person in God's world I care to

have see me now. Let them send for him."

So the lawyer came to the hospital, viewed Norval with outward calm;

felt his heart tighten and his eyes dim, then wrote the short, stiff

note that reached Anderson Law by Mam'selle's wood pile.

From that moment events moved rapidly. Taken from the still place where

death seemed to have crushed everything, Donelle aroused herself slowly.

She simply could not realize the wonderful thing that was happening; the

marvellous fact that life still persisted and that she was part of it.

"He--he will not die?" she asked Law over and over again, apparently

forgetting that she had put the question before.

"Die? Jim Norval? Certainly _not_," vowed Law with energy born of fear

and apprehension.

"And," here Donelle's eyes would glow, "he did his duty to, to the last!

I am so glad that he stayed with her, Man-Andy, until she needed him no

longer. Then I'm glad he went over there to help. There will be

nothing to be sorry for now. It was worth waiting for. And does he know

about Tom, my husband?"

The word husband seemed to justify the rest.

"He does not, Donelle. And see here, child, we've got to go slow.

Norval is going to come around all right and God knows he needs you,

though he may not know it himself."

"But why, Man-Andy? And what is the matter with him, exactly? You have

not told me."

There had been so much to say and do that details had been artistically

eliminated.

"Well, his legs are wobbly." Law sought for the least objectionable

symptoms.

"Wobbly? But he _has_ them, hasn't he?" Donelle thought of the boys of

Point of Pines who--had not.

"Legs? Jim Norval? Well, I should say so! But they've rather gone back

on him for the moment. And his eyes----"

"His eyes?" Donelle clutched Law. "What about his eyes?"

"Now, see here, Donelle. I'm taking you to Norval because I believe you

alone can cure him; make him want to live, but you've got to behave

yourself. My girl, I don't know much myself, they've simply sent for

me."

The river steamer was nearing New York. It was early morning and the

gray mysterious mists were hiding the mighty, silent city. It was like

a dream of a distant place. A solemn fear that strengthened and

hardened Donelle rose in her at Law's words. She groped for, found, and

held his hand like a good comrade.

"Whatever it is, Man-Andy," she whispered, "I'm ready. If--he never

walks again, I can fetch and carry. If--if his dear eyes can never see

the--the things he loved, he shall use my eyes, always."

Law then understood that the girl near him drew her strength and force

from hidden sources. He knew that he could depend upon her. He

tightened his clasp of the little hand.

"And now," he explained, gulping unvoluntarily, "you'll understand why I

cannot take you right to Norval."

"Yes, Man-Andy." The white face grew set.

"I'm going to have him moved from the hospital to my studio. I've got

plenty of room and he'd like it there."

"Yes, have him moved, have him moved." Donelle said the words over as

if learning a lesson. She was trying to visualize the helpless man.

"As for you, little girl, I'm going to send you to Revelle. He's

waiting for you. I telegraphed from Quebec. There's a nice young body

keeping house for him, a Mary Walden, who once mistook love of art _for_

art. She got saved and is now making a kind of home for--well, people

like you and old Revelle. She's found her heaven in doing this and

you'll be safe and happy with her until you can come to Norval."

"Yes. Quite safe and happy, Man-Andy."

And through the days that followed Donelle made no complaint; no

demands. She kept near Revelle; listened to his music with yearning

memories; grew to love Mary Walden, who watched over her like a kind and

wise sister.

Law came daily with his happy reports. Norval was gaining fast; had

been overjoyed at the change from hospital to the studio; had borne the

moving splendidly.

But still there was no mention of Donelle going to him, and the girl

asked no questions.

At last Law was driven into the open. He was in despair. He'd got

Norval to the studio, but there he seemed to find himself up against a

wall.

He took Donelle into his confidence.

"Perhaps if we could get him to Point of Pines," she suggested, her own

longing and homesickness adding force to the words. The noise and

unrest of the city were all but killing her.

"No," Law shook his head. "I touched on that but he said he'd be

hanged, or something to that effect, if he'd be carried like a funeral

cortege to Point of Pines."

"Doesn't he ever speak of me?" The question was heavy with heartache

and longing.

"No, and I wonder if you can get any happiness out of that? You ought

to."

The deep eyes were raised to Law's.

"Yes. I see what you mean," Donelle smiled. Then: "Man-Andy, there are

times when I think I must go to him. Fling everything aside and say

'here I am!'"

"There are times when I've wished to God you could, Donelle, but I asked

the doctor and he said a shock would be a bad thing. No, we must wait."

Then he turned to Mary Walden, who was quietly sewing by the window.

The plain, comfortable little woman was like a nerve tonic.

"Mary," he said, "I'm going to ask you to do something for me."

"Yes, Mr. Law." The voice in itself restored poise to the poiseless.

"I'm tuckered out, I want you to come for two or three hours each day

and read to Norval. My voice gets raspy and he absorbs books like a

sponge. Besides, I want to paint. I've got an idea on my chest.

Revelle can take care of Donelle while you are with me."

And then, so suddenly that Law fell back before the onslaught, Donelle

rushed to him.

"Why can't I go?" she demanded. No other word could describe the look

and tone. "He could not see me!"

"But, good Lord, he still has his hearing, devilish sharp hearing."

"I could talk like Mary Walden! Why, Man-Andy, always I could act and

talk like others, if I wanted to. Mamsey could tell you. I used to

make her laugh. Please listen----"

And then in a kind of desperation Donelle made an effort, such a pitiful

one, to speak in the calm, colourless tones of Mary Walden. They all

wanted to laugh, even Revelle who, at the moment, entered the room, but

the strained, tense look on the girl's face restrained them.

But a week later Donelle made a test. From another room she carried on

quite a conversation with Law and, until she showed herself, he could

have sworn he was talking to Mary Walden.

"Now, then!" Donelle exclaimed, confronting him almost fiercely, "you've

got to let me try. Mary Walden and I have worked it all out. I'm to

wear a red wig and a black dress with white collar and cuffs. If the

bandages should slip, and he happened at that moment to see, he wouldn't

know me. My voice is--is perfect, Man-Andy, and besides," here Donelle

quivered, "I'm going to him, anyway!"

"In that case," and Law shrugged his shoulders, "I'll surrender. You're

a young wonder, Donelle."

Then Law laughed, and laughs were rare treats to him those days.

And that night he broke the plan to Norval in the following manner:

"See here, boy, I'm willing to go on with this job of getting you on

your feet provided I have my usual half holidays."

"I know I'm using you up, Andy. Why not put me in a home for

incurables?"

"Nothing doing, Jim. They'd discover you even in this disguise."

"It's a sin not to have a law that permits the demolishing of

derelicts." Norval's chin looked grim.

"So it is, but there you are!"

There was a pitiful pause. Then Law brought forth his suggestions as to

a certain Mary Walden.

"She could read you to sleep while I daub, Jim."

"She? Good heavens! What is it, a pretty young female thing yearning

to do her bit?"

"On the other hand, she's as plain as a pipe stem and is an equal wage

advocate. She's red-headed," Law had seen the new wig, "dresses for her

job, and is warranted to read without stopping for three hours at a

stretch."

"Good Lord." Norval moved uneasily.

"Shall we corral her, Jim?"

"Yes, run her in mornings, I can smoke and snooze afternoons, and the

evenings are your best times, Andy. You're almost human then. Yes,

engage the red head."

So Donelle, after a few days of further practice in mimicking Mary

Walden's calm, even voice, went to Norval.

*CHAPTER XXIII*

*BOTH NORVAL AND DONELLE--SEE*

When Donelle stood on the threshold of Anderson Law's studio and looked

within, her courage almost deserted her. There, stretched on the

steamer chair, was Norval, his eyes bandaged, his helpless legs covered

by a heavy rug. He was very still and his long, thin hands were folded

in a strange, definite way that seemed to say eloquently, "Finis."

The tears rose to Donelle's eyes, overflowed, and rolled down her white

cheeks. She stretched out her empty, yearning arms toward the man

across the room. Law, standing by, shook his head warningly. He feared

the beautiful, dramatic plan was about to crumble, but in another moment

he realized that the strength of Donelle lay in her depths, not her

surfaces.

"Jim," he said, "here's Miss Walden."

Norval was alert on the instant. Making the best of things, as both

Donelle and Law saw, he smiled, put out a hand, and said:

"Glad to see you, Miss Walden. It's awfully good of you to spend hours

making life a little less of a bore to a fellow."

Donelle tried her brand-new voice:

"One has to make a living, Mr. Norval. This is a very pleasant way to

do it."

Mary Walden had framed that speech and had coached her pupil. Then:

"May I go in the inner room and take off my hat?"

"Law, show her, please. You see, Miss Walden, I'm a squatter. This is

Mr. Law's place."

In ten minutes Donelle was back, red wig, trim gown, white collar and

cuffs, a demure and tragically determined young person.

Law began to enjoy the sport now that he knew Donelle was not going to

betray him.

"I'm going over to the north end of the room," he said, "and daub.

There's a book on the stand, Miss Walden, that Norval likes. There's a

cigarette stump between the pages where we left off."

"Reading will not disturb you, Mr. Law?" Donelle was reaching for the

book when suddenly Norval started up as if an electric current had gone

through him. Donelle shivered, that cigarette stump had made her

careless.

"What is the matter, Mr. Norval?" she asked in Mary Walden's most casual

and businesslike tones.

"Oh! just for a moment, please excuse me, but you made me think of

someone I once knew. The blind are subject to all sorts of fancies.

Law, did you notice----" but Norval stopped short and Anderson Law waved

frantic hands at Donelle.

She did not let go of herself after that for many days; not until her

assumed voice became so familiar to Norval that those undertones lost

their power over him.

Donelle read tirelessly, her practice with Jo stood her in good stead.

Books, books, books! Greedily Norval demanded them, motionless he lay

upon his couch, and listened while Law at the north window painted and

dreamed, and then painted his dreams. He got Jo at the oven on canvas

for the spring exhibit. Donelle silently wept before it, kissed the

blessed face, and gave Law a bad half hour painting off the kiss!

Always while life lasted Donelle was to look back upon those studio days

as a sacred memory. Life was using her and she was ready to pay--to pay.

New York, until years later, meant to her only three high notes: terror

of its bigness and noise, patience while she waited with Mary Walden

until she was used, glory as she served the man she loved.

The flights through the city streets grew to be mere detail. She

neither saw nor heeded the bustle and unrest. She was like a little,

eager soul seeking, unerringly, its own.

There was to be a time when Donelle would know the splendour and meaning

of the City, but not then. She was conscious at that time only of the

crude joy of existence near her love.

He depended upon, watched for her; the maternal in her was so rapidly

developed that at length Norval, from his dark place of helplessness,

confided in her!

"Your voice is tired," he said one day; they had been reading Olive

Schreiner's "Dreams."

"Oh, no, I'm not tired, only the little Lost Joy sort of filled me up."

That was an expression of Jo's.

"But it's infernally true," Norval went on, "these 'Dreams' are about as

gripping as anything I know of. If we cannot have exactly what we want

in life, we are as blind as bats to, perhaps, the thing that is better

than our wishes." Then, so suddenly that Donelle drew back in alarm, he

asked:

"Are you a big young person, or a little one?"

"Why, I'm thin, but I'm quite tall." The voice was sterner than Mary

Walden could have evolved.

"You think me rude, presuming?"

"Oh! no, Mr. Norval. I was only wishing I was, well--rather nicer to

talk about."

Law, by the north window, went through a series of contortions that

lightened the occasion.

"You know, here in the dark where I live now, one has to imagine a lot.

Lately I've wanted to know exactly--exactly as words can portray, just

how you look. Andy?"

"Yes, Jim. What's up?"

"Come here."

Law came forward, smudgy and dauby, pallette on thumb.

"Tell me how Miss Walden looks. I want to place her. She has a ghastly

habit of escaping me when I'm alone and thinking her over. I can't seem

to fix her."

"Well," Law stood off and regarded Donelle seriously, "She's red headed

and thin. She ought to be fed up. I don't believe she can stand the

city in summer. She doesn't walk very well, she's at her best when

running."

"Oh! Mr. Law." Donelle found herself laughing in spite of herself.

"Well, you are. I've caught you running two or three times on the

street. You looked as if you had your beginnings in wide spaces and

could not forget them."

"I--I am a country girl," the practical young voice almost broke. "I

hate the city. Maybe I do run sometimes. I always feel that something

is after me."

"What?" asked Norval, and he, too, was laughing.

His old depression seldom came now when his faithful reader was present.

"I cannot describe it. I read a child's story once about a Kicker. It

was described as a big, round thing with feet pointing in every

direction. One didn't stand a chance when the Kicker got after him.

The city seems like that to me. The round thing is full of noise,

noise, noise; it just hurls itself along on its thousands of feet. I do

run when I get thinking of it."

Norval leaned his head back with a delighted chuckle.

"Law," he asked presently, "does Miss Walden ever remind you of any

one?"

Law looked at the red wig.

"No," he said contemplatively, "she doesn't."

A week after that, it was a warm, humid day, the windows of the studio

were open.

"I suppose you'll go away when summer comes?" Norval asked.

"And you?" Donelle laid down her book.

"No. I'll stay on here. I mean to get a man to look after me. I'm

going to send Law on an errand."

"I wish," Donelle's eyes were filled with the yellow glow so like

sunlight. "I wish, Mr. Norval, that you would try to walk. Your

masseur says you are better."

"What's the use, Miss Walden? At the best it would mean a crutch or a

cane. I couldn't bring myself to that. A dog would be better, but I

never saw but one dog I'd cotton to for the job."

"Where is that dog, Mr. Norval?"

"The Lord knows. Gone to the heaven of good, faithful pups, probably."

"Mr. Norval?"

"Yes, Miss Walden."

"I wish, while Mr. Law is out every morning for his airing, that you

would try--you could lean on my shoulder--to walk! Just think how

surprised he'd be some day to find you on your feet by the north

window."

"Would that please you, Miss Walden, to act the part of a nice little

dog leading a blind man?"

"I'd love it! And you must remember, your doctor says your eyes are

better. Mr. Norval," here the words came with almost cruel sternness,

"I think it is--it is cowardly for you not to try and make the best of

things. Even if you can't see very well, or walk very well, you have no

right to hold back from doing the best you can! It is mean and small."

Ah! if Norval could have seen the eyes that were searching his grim

face.

"You may be right. I begin to feel I am not going to die!" Norval drew

in a deep breath, his lips relaxed.

"The shock is passing," Donelle's voice softened. "You will recover, I

know you will--if you are brave."

"The shock! Good God, the shock! It was like hell let loose. For

months I heard the splitting noise, the hot sand in my face----!"

It was the first time Norval had spoken of the war, and the drops of

perspiration started on his forehead.

"Don't talk of it, Mr. Norval. Please let me help you to your feet.

Just a few steps."

Donelle was afraid of the excitement she had aroused.

In self-defense Norval let her help him. He would not lie still and

remember. His self-imposed silence, once broken, might overpower him.

Something dynamic was surging in him.

"I cannot stand," he said weakly. "You see?"

"Of course the first time is hard. You may fall halfway, but I'll catch

you, and I--I won't tell."

Norval laughed nervously.

"You're a brick," he faltered.

"Now then, Mr. Norval. Put your hand on my shoulder, the other hand on

this chair. Why, you're not falling. Come on!"

Two, three steps Norval took, while the veins stood out on his temples.

"Good God!" he muttered under his breath, "I'm not crumbling, that's a

sure thing."

The next day he did a little better; the tenth day he reached the north

window with the aid of the chair and the little shoulder, that felt,

under his hand, like fine steel. They kept their mighty secret from

Law.

"What's on the easels?" Norval asked on the morning of the fourteenth

day when he felt the breeze from the north coming in through the

half-opened window.

"One easel has a girl on it; a girl with a fiddle."

Norval breathed hard, then gave a laugh.

"Fairer than morning, lovelier than the daylight," he whispered.

"Yes. Why, yes, Mr. Norval. Those words are on a piece of paper

hanging from the frame. How did you know?"

"Miss Walden, I painted that picture. You may not believe it, but I

did. It is a portrait of about the purest soul I ever met."

"Can you tell me about her?"

"No, she's not the kind to tell about."

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Norval." But Donelle's face was aglow.

"And the other easel?" Norval was asking. "What's on that?"

"Such a dear, funny woman. She's standing by a big oven, an outdoor

oven; she's got loaves of bread on something that looks like a flat

spade."

Norval's face was a study.

"Where do they use those ovens?" Donelle asked.

"Oh! somewhere in Canada."

"Did you ever know this dear, funny woman, Mr. Norval."

"She's not the kind one _knows_. I've seen her, thank heaven! I'm glad

to be able to recall her when I'm alone."

"Yes--she looks like that kind." Donelle threw a kiss to the pictured

Jo.

Another week and then the chair was discarded. Quite impressively

Norval, his hand on the small, steady shoulder, did the length of the

studio.

"It's great," he said like a happy boy. "Miss Walden, you ought to have

the cross, iron, gold, or whatever it is they give to brave women."

"I have," Donelle whispered delightedly; "I have."

"What is it made of, Miss Walden, this cross that you have won?"

"You'll have to guess."

"You're a pert young secretary if that is the title your job goes by.

Aren't you afraid I'll bounce you?"

"I'm going to bounce myself."

"What!" The hand on the shoulder tightened. "You're going away?"

"Yes, I cannot stand a summer in the city. That Kicker almost caught me

this morning."

"You treat me like a spoiled child, Miss Walden. Amusing me, coaxing me;

you'll be bringing me toys next."

"You're a strong man, now, Mr. Norval, that is why I'm going away. Soon

you will not need me. The doctor told Mr. Law yesterday that surely you

would see."

"Did he? Don't fool me, Miss Walden. I do not want to be eased up.

Did he say that?"

"Yes, I heard him."

A growing excitement stirred Norval and that afternoon he met Law

halfway across the room! Not even the little shoulder aided him. He

stretched out his hand and said:

"Andy, here I am!"

For a moment Law reeled back. Of late he feared that Norval would

defeat all their hopes by his indifference.

"You--you've done this?" he said to Donelle, who stood behind Norval,

her trembling hands covering her quivering lips.

"No, he did it quite by himself, Mr. Law. He's been so brave," she

managed to say, the tears in Law's eyes making her afraid that she might

lose control over her own shaking nerves.

"Lord, Jim!" Law was gripping Norval's hand. "I feel as if--well, as if

I'd seen a miracle."

The next day the specialist confirmed what Donelle had said about the

eyes.

"You're going to see again, Norval," was the verdict. "You'll have to

go slow, wear dark glasses for awhile, but most of all, forget what

brought this about. Your nerves have played the deuce with you."

"Yes," Norval replied, "for some time I've had that line on my nerves,

ever since Miss Walden bullied me into walking."

The afternoon of that same day Norval surprised Donelle by announcing

that he was dead tired of reading.

"I want to talk," he said. "Where is Law?"

"He went to--to see Professor Revelle. He said he wanted some music;

that you," the pale face broke into a pathetic smile, "that you had got

on his nerves. Unless he got out he'd be----"

"What, Miss Walden? What, exactly?"

"Well, he'd be damned! That is what he said, exactly."

"He's beginning to treat me like a human being, Miss Walden. I love Law

when he's at his worst. I suppose I've been a big trial, moping here.

Have I injured your nerves?"

"No--o! Not for life."

"You're a comical little codjer. Excuse me, Miss Walden. There are

times still when you remind me of someone to whom I once dared to speak

my mind."

Then, quite suddenly:

"Where are you going this summer?"

"I have not decided yet, Mr. Norval. Why?"

"Nothing, I was only thinking, but I'll have to speak to Law first. One

thing is sure, I'm not going to be an ass much longer. See here, Miss

Walden, you're a sturdy sort; you've stuck it out with me at my lowest.

I'm going to repay you for the trouble I've made you by making more for

you. I'm going to go away this summer, too. I've wanted to go lately.

I've got to dreaming about it. I'm going to a little place hidden away

in Canada. I have something to do there."

"Yes?" The word was a mere breath.

"For a time I couldn't contemplate it; I was too proud to show my

battered hulk. Now it seems that I have no longer any right to consider

myself. I was going to ask Mr. Law to carry a message for me to a young

girl there; the girl on that canvas by the window. Instead--I'm going

to carry it!"

Donelle's hands gripped each other. She struggled to keep her voice

steady, cold.

"I think you ought to carry your message yourself, if you can. You have

no right to consider only yourself," she faltered.

"I wasn't, entirely." This came humbly from Norval. "The girl to whom

I am going is the sort who would be deeply sorry for me; she'd go to any

lengths to make up to me, if she could. Of course, you understand, I

would not let her, but I'd hate to make life harder for her."

"Perhaps she has a right to--to judge for herself." Donelle was holding

firm.

"Well, I don't know, Miss Walden. Such a woman as you might judge

wisely--even for yourself. She wouldn't. She's the kind that risks

everything; she's what you might call a divine gambler."

"Poor girl!"

"Yes, that's what I often say of her--poor girl!"

It was twilight in the quiet studio; there was no one to see Donelle's

tears.

"I'm going to tell you something," Norval said suddenly, "something that

has been troubling me lately. At first it didn't seem vital, it seemed

rather like a detail. I'm wondering how a woman would consider it."

"I'd love to hear unless you'd rather have me read to you, Mr. Norval."

"No, for a wonder, I'd rather tell you a story."

*CHAPTER XXIV*

*THE GLORY BREAKS THROUGH*

And then Norval told Donelle about Tom Gavot.

"You see that girl in Canada is married--was married, I mean; the young

fellow is dead. He lies under French earth in a pretty little village

that's been battered to the ground. Some day it will rise gloriously

again. I like to think of that Canadian boy sleeping there, waiting.

"He was a surveyor and, before a dirty sniper got him, he used to prowl

about the desolated country and lay out roads! In his mind, you know.

He was a fanciful chap, but a practical worker.

"I ran across him one day; I had known him before. He had never liked

me when I knew him in Canada, but most anything goes when you're over

there. He got to--to rather chumming with me at last, and many a laugh

I've had with him over the roads he saw through the hell about us.

"Once we had silently agreed to ignore the past--and the poor fellow had

something to forgive in it, though not all he had supposed--we got on

famously. We really got to feel like brothers. You do--there. He was a

queer chap through and through. He always expected he was going to do

the white-livered thing and he always did the bravest when the snap

came. He did his thinking and squirming beforehand. At the critical

moment he just acted up like--well, like the man he was.

"Why, he would talk by the hour of what a good idea it was of the

Government's to let the families of men, shot as traitors, think them

heroes who had died serving their country. He often said it didn't

matter, one way or the other, for the man who got what was coming to

him, but for them who had to live on it was something to think the best,

even if it were not so.

"Then he'd write letters and cards, to be sent home in case he should

meet a traitor's death. Poor devil! I have some of those letters now."

A throbbing, aching pause. Then:

"Miss Walden, does this depress you too much?"

"No, it--I--I love it, Mr. Norval. Please go on; it is a beautiful

story."

Donelle sat in the deepening shadows, her eyes seeming to hold the

sunlight that had long since faded behind the west.

"Well, there isn't much more to tell and the end--unless one happens to

know how things are over there: how big things seem little, and little

things massive--the end seems almost like a grisly joke.

"We had got to thinking the French place where we were billeted was as

safe as New York. I wasn't a trained man, I was doing whatever happened

to be lying around loose. They called it reconstruction work. Good

Lord! My special job, though, just then was driving an ambulance.

Well, quite unexpectedly one night the enemy got a line on us from God

knows what distance, and they just peppered us. There was a hospital

there, too. They must have known that, the fiends, and, for a time,

things were mighty ticklish. The boys knew their duty, however, and did

it magnificently. Those Canadians were superb; given a moment to catch

their breath, they were as steady as steel. By morning the worst was

over, the shelling, you know, and they began to bring the boys in; back

from the fight, back to where the hospital used to be. Out in the open

doctors and nurses were working; the ones who had escaped I never saw

such nerve; they just worked over the poor hurt fellows as if nothing

had happened.

"I was jumping about. There was plenty to do even for an unskilled

fellow who could only drive an ambulance. I kept bringing in

loads--such loads! And I kept an eye open for the chap from Canada that

I knew best of all.

"About noon a giant of a fellow who, they said, had fought like a devil

all night, came up to me blubbering like a baby. It seems my man had

been fighting beside this boy, doing what one might expect, the big

thing! The two of them had crawled into a shell-hole and worked from

that cover where they were comparatively safe. In a lull--and here

comes the grim joke--a poor dog ran in front of them with a piece of

barbed wire caught about his haunches. The brute was howling as he ran

and my--my chap just went after him, caught him, pulled the wire out,

and--keeled over himself. A sniper had done for him!

"He wanted me; had sent his comrade to find me. I got there just before

the end.

"'You've heard?' he asked, and when I nodded he whispered that I was to

tell his wife; he knew she would understand. He was quite firm about my

telling her, he was like a boy over that, and I promised. He only spoke

once again.

"'It paid!' he said, and with that he went over to his rest.

"Are you crying, Miss Walden?"

"Yes, yes, but oh! how glorious they are, those boys!"

"I should not have told you this story."

"I thank God you have! And indeed, Mr. Norval it is your sacred duty to

tell it to--to that girl in Canada. You promised and she ought to

know."

[Illustration: "'Indeed, Mr. Norval, it is your sacred duty to tell it

to--to that girl in Canada. You promised and she ought to know.'"]

"You, a woman, think that? Don't you think it might be better for her

if she didn't know?"

"How dare you! Oh! forgive me, Mr. Norval. I was only thinking

of--of--the girl."

"Well, lately, I've been wondering. You see, Miss Walden, soon after I

saw my friend safe, I got my baptism shock--gas and the rest. It

flattened me out, but now I am beginning to feel, to suffer. Using my

legs has brought me to myself."

"And you will go and keep your promise, Mr. Norval, you will?"

"Yes, that is what I've been turning over in my mind."

"You see," Donelle was holding herself tight, "that, that girl in Canada

might be thinking, knowing her husband, that he had not played the man

at the last. The truth might save so much. And don't you understand

how he, that poor boy, had to save the dog? It was saving himself.

Another could have afforded to see the folly of exposing himself, but he

could not. Had he stayed in the hole he might have been a coward

after!"

"I had not thought of that, Miss Walden. The deadly absurdity of the

act made me bitter. I saw--just the dog part, you know."

"I believe the girl in Canada will see the man part." The words came

solemnly. "Yes, it did pay; it did!"

"You have convinced me, Miss Walden. I must go and keep my promise.

"To-morrow they are going to make a big test of my eyes. After that I

will start. I want you and Law to come, too."

"Oh! I----"

"Couldn't you do this just as a last proof of your good heartedness,

Miss Walden?"

Donelle struggled with her tears. Her heart was beating wildly; beating

for Tom and for the helpless man before her. She, sad little frail

thing, stood between the dead and the pitiful living.

"Yes, I will go," she said at length.

"Thank you, Miss Walden."

Norval smiled in the darkness.

The next day the test came--the test to his eyes. Norval meant that his

first look should rest upon Miss Walden!

He heard her moving about, getting books and tables out of the doctor's

way. He heard Law excitedly directing her, and then--the bandages fell

away. There was a moment of tense silence.

"What do you see, Norval?" the doctor asked.

Norval saw a slim, little black-robed back and a red head! But all he

said was:

"I see Andy's ugly mug!"

The words were curiously broken and hoarse. Then:

"Andy, old man, get a hold on me; it's almost too good to be true!"

In July they went to Canada. By that time Norval could make quite a

showing by walking between Law and Miss Walden. He wore heavy dark

glasses and only had periods of "seeing things." At such moments Miss

Walden was conspicuously absent.

The _River Queen_ swept grandly up to the dock in the full glory of high

noon. Jean Duval was there on his crutches; he was at his old job,

grateful and at peace.

"Where are we going?" Norval asked. He had hardly dared put the

question.

"Mam'selle Jo Morey is going to take us in," Law replied. "At least

she'll feed us. It's a cabin in the woods for us, Jim."

"That sounds good to me, Andy." Norval drew in his breath sharply.

"The pines are corking," he added. Then: "Miss Walden, how do you like

the looks of the place?"

Donelle, under a heavy veil, was feasting her eyes on Point of Pines; on

a blessed figure waiting by a sturdy cart.

"It looks like heaven!" replied the even voice of Mary Walden.

Jo Morey came to the gang plank, and found her own among the passengers.

Then her brows drew close, almost hiding her eyes.

"Those are my boarders!" she proclaimed loudly, seizing Donelle. "This

way, please."

Law was the only one who spoke on the drive up. Jo sat on the shaft, the

others on the broad seat.

"I miss Nick," he remarked.

Mam'selle turned and gave him a stern look. Could he not know, the

stupid man, that Nick would have given the whole thing away? Nick had a

sense that defied red wigs and false voices. Nick was at that moment

indignantly scratching splinters off the inside of the cow-shed door.

There was a sumptuous meal in the spotless and radiant living room.

There was a gentle fire on the hearth, though why, who could tell?

And then, according to orders when the sun was not too bright, Norval

announced that he was going to take off his "screens."

"I'm going to look about for a full hour," he said quietly, but with

that tone in his voice that always made Donelle bow her head.

"Mam'selle!"

"Yes, Mr.----" Jo wanted to say Richard Alton, instead she managed the

Norval with a degree of courtesy that put heart in the man who listened.

"Mam'selle, I haven't noticed Donelle's voice. Where is she?"

"She'll come, if you want her, Mr. Norval."

Want her? Want her? The very air throbbed with the want.

"She's upstairs," added Jo, looking grimmer than ever.

"I--I have something to tell her about Tom Gavot--her husband." Norval

smiled strangely.

"I'll call her, Mr. Norval."

Then they all waited.

Law walked to the window and choked. In the distance he could hear the

howling demands of the imprisoned Nick and the swishing of the outgoing

tide.

Mam'selle stood by the foot of the little winding stairs. She was

afraid of herself, poor Jo, afraid she was going to show what she felt!

Norval sat in the best rocker, his hands clasped rigidly. He had not

removed his screens, he did not intend to until he heard upon the stairs

the step for which he hungered.

And then Donelle came so softly that the listening man did not know she

was there until she stood beside him. She had put on a white dress that

Mam'selle had spun for her. The pale hair was twisted about her little

head in the old simple way; the golden eyes were full of the light that

had never shone there until love lighted it.

Law and Jo had stolen from the room.

"Here I am!"

Then Norval took down the screens and opened his arms.

"My love, my love," he whispered, "come!"

"Why----" Donelle drew back, her eyes widened.

"Donelle, Donelle, do you think you could hide yourself from me? Why,

it was because I saw you that I wanted to live; wanted to make the most

of what I had.

"Child, the day you got me out of the chair I was sure! Before that I

hoped, prayed; then I knew! I drew the bandage off a little and I saw

your eyes."

"My beloved!"

And Donelle, kneeling beside him, raised her face from his breast.

"I am going to kiss you now, Donelle," he said, "but to think that such

as I am is the best that life has for you, is----!"

"Don't," she whispered, "don't! Remember the dear Dream of First Joy,

my man. I never lost our First Joy. God let me keep her safe."

From across the road came the wild, excited yelps of the released Nick.

Slowly, for Nick was old, he padded up the steps, into the room, up to

the girl on the floor beside the chair. Donelle pressed the shaggy head

to her.

"Nick always has kept First Joy, too," she whispered. And oh, but her

eyes were wonderful.

"And you'll play again for me, Donelle?" Norval still held her, though

he heard Law and Mam'selle approaching.

"Sometime, dear man, sometime I'll bring the fiddle to the wood-cabin.

Sometime after I get strings. The strings, some of them, have snapped."

Late that evening, quite late, nine o'clock surely, Law and Jo stood

near the hearth where the embers still glowed.

"Where are the children?" Law asked as if all the mad happenings of the

day were bagatelles.

"Out on the road, the road!" Jo's face quivered. "The moonlight is

wonderful, the road is as clear as day." She was thinking of Tom Gavot

while her great heart ached with pity of it all.

"Queer ideas that young Gavot had about roads," Law said musingly, "Jim

has told me."

"Poor boy, he got precious little for himself out of life," Jo flung

back.

The bitterness lay deep in Mam'selle's heart. Almost her love for

Donelle, her joy in her, were darkened by what seemed to Jo to be

forgetfulness. That was unforgivable in her eyes.

"I wonder!" Law said gently; he was learning to understand the woman

beside him.

"If this were all of the road, you might feel the way you do. But it's

a mighty little part of it, Mam'selle. To most of us is given short

sight, to a few, long. I would wager all I have that young Gavot always

saw over the hilltop."

"That's a good thing to say and feel, Mr. Law." Jo tried to control her

brows, failed, and let Law look full in her splendid eyes.

"Life's too big for us, Mam'selle," he said, "too big for us. There are

times when it lets us run along, lets us believe we are managing it.

Then comes something like this war that proves that when life needs us,

it clutches us again.

"It needs those two out there on the road in the moonlight, one groping,

the other leading; on and on! Life will use them for its own purposes.

No use in struggling, Mam'selle; life has us all by the throat."

"You're a strange man, Mr. Law."

Jo was trembling.

"You're a strange woman, Mam'selle."

There was a pause. Out on the road Donelle was singing a little French

song, one she had brought with her out of the Home at St. Michael's.

"You and I," Law continued, "have learned some of life's lessons in a

hard school, Mam'selle. Many of our teachers have been the same; they've

made us _hew_ where others have molded, but I'm thinking we have come to

know the true values of things, you and I. The value of labour,

companionship on the long road, a hearth fire somewhere at the close of

the day."

And now Law held out his hand as a good friend does to another.

"I wish, Mam'selle," his voice grew wonderfully kind, "I wish you could

bring yourself to--travel the rest of the way with me."

The door was wide open, the fair moonlight lay across the porch, but Jo

was thinking of another night when the howling wind had pressed a

warning against the door and Pierre Gavot defiled the shelter she had

wrung from her life battle--Pierre the Redeemed!

"Are you asking me to marry you, Mr. Law?" Jo's deep eyes were seeking

an answer in the look which was holding her. She was dazed, frightened.

"Will you honour me by bearing my name, Mam'selle? Will you let me help

you keep the fire upon the hearth for them?"

Nearer and nearer came Donelle and Norval, Donelle still singing with

the moonlight on her face.

"I have fought my way up from lonely boyhood, Mam'selle. I've lived a

lonely man! And you, Mam'selle, I know your story. When all is said

and done, loneliness is the hardest thing to bear."

Tears stood in Jo's eyes--tears!

"You are a strange man," she repeated.

"And you a strange woman, Mam'selle."

But they were smiling now, smiling as people smile who, at the turn of

the road, see that it does not end, but goes on and on and on.