The words were wrung from Norval, but he did not look up. "I’m sure now that you know, you never will hurt us again," Donelle’s voice soothed and caressed unconsciously. "I!—I wanted to be happy just as if nothing had happened, before I was born, to keep me from being happy. I thought about love, just as girls will. They cannot help it. Then you came and I wanted you!" A quivering fierceness shot through the words. Norval gave a quick glance at the face near him and saw that the purest, most primitive statement of a mighty truth held the girl’s thought. If she had said, she, the first woman, to him, the first man: "You are mine, I want you," she could not have said it more divinely. "I wanted to make you happy; to play for you while you painted your beautiful pictures, and then when you were tired and I was tired, why, our big love would bring us more and more happiness. Then, well, then you looked at me through Tom Gavot’s window and somehow I understood!" Donelle and Norval were nearing the little white house, they could see the smoke rising from the chimney. Norval’s thoughts were racing madly ahead, crowding upon him, choking him. He meant to make the future safe for this young girl, safe from himself and the sacredest passion of his life which, he now acknowledged, had mastered him. Reason, world-understanding, had no part in it, he wanted her. He must have her, and was prepared to clear the path leading to an honest love. But he could not tell her of Katherine, of himself, there was no time; no time and her experience could not possibly have prepared her for bearing it. "I am going to tell you a great secret," Donelle half whispered, "back there by the cross I remembered what the Sisters at the Home used to tell me. They knew, but I did not—then. For girls like me—well, I am going back to St. Michael’s-on-the-Rocks and teach the babies. That’s why I could tell you what I have just told you." Then Norval turned and took her in his arms. So swiftly, so overpoweringly did he do this, that Donelle lay quiet and frightened, her white face pressed against his breast, her wonderful eyes searching his stern, strange face. "No, by God! You are not going back to St. Michael’s!" he whispered. "You little white soul, can’t you see I love and adore you? Can’t you see it was because I couldn’t bear another man to—to have you, that I was a brute to you? Do you think that any wrong others have done can keep you from me, from letting me take you where you belong? Donelle! Donelle, kiss me, child." Only the deep eyes moved; they widened and grew dark. "May I—kiss you?" "No." And Norval did not kiss her!