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.