"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?"