"Yes. But I’m not going." "Why, Tom?" "I’m too busy." "I wish you would go, Tom. I wish you could see his pictures. Why, Tom, you’d feel like taking the shoes off your feet." Tom laughed grimly. "Not while the weather’s so cold," he said. "But, Tom, that’s the reason for Mr. Alton. He is getting our woods and skies and river safe on his canvases. He’s going to take them back to people who have never seen such things." "Why don’t they come and board here, then, and see them for themselves?" Tom threw a log viciously on the fire. "You don’t mean he’s doing this to give a lot of people pleasure?" "Tom, he sells his pictures; he gets a great deal of money for them." "Umph!" Then, "Has he ever put you in the pictures, Donelle?" There was a slight pause. Remembering the faint suggestion in the first picture she had ever seen in the cabin, Donelle said softly: "No, Tom." "I’m glad. I’d hate to have a lot of strangers staring at you." "Tom, you’re scrouchy. Let me play for you." And, while she played, growing more rapt and absorbed as she did so, Tom took his drawing board to the window and bent over his blueprints. Gradually the look of doubt and irritation left his face, a flood of happiness swept over him. He began to see roads. Always roads. He wanted to go to Quebec in the spring and tell his firm about something he had discovered lately; and it was on Mam’selle Morey’s land, too. If there were a road back among the hills over which to haul that which he had found, haul it by a short cut to the railroad, by and by Mam’selle and Donelle would not have to take objectionable strangers into their home and—— Donelle played on unheedingly, but Tom started as a knock fell on the door! "I will not open it!" he thought savagely. "Let him think what he damn pleases." The tune ran glidingly on. "You like this tune, Tom?" Donelle was far away from the still cabin. "Yes, I like it, Donelle, but play something louder, faster." "Well, then, how about this?" and with a laugh Donelle swung into a new theme. Again the knock! This time softer but more insinuating. Then all was quiet, but the mad music was filling the warm room. Just then the visitor at the door stepped around the house and came in full view of the window before which Tom sat, rigid and defiant. It was Norval, and he paused, came nearer and stood still. Tom got up, and the movement attracted Donelle’s attention. She turned and saw the two men glaring at each other, the glass between. "Curse him!" muttered Tom, "curse him!" Norval vanished instantly, but not before Donelle had caught the expression in his eyes. "Tom," she said affrightedly, "what did he think?" "What does it matter what he thought?" "But, Tom, tell me, what did he think to make him look like that? Perhaps, perhaps he thinks I should not be here, alone with you." "Damn him. What right has he to stare into my place?"