Tom looked, and turned away. It did not seem fair to—to bully fellows like that. He was angry, but he went back. The boy’s face seemed to grow like his own! Poor Tom, he could not realize that it was the face of young Canada. The woman why, she was like the long-dead mother! Tom felt sure, had his mother lived, that she would have been old and saintly. Yes, saintly in spite of everything, for would not he have seen to that? He, and his roads? Tom thought of his roads, his peaceful, beautiful roads. Would he be fit to plan them, travel on them if he let other men make them safe for him? Then one September day he said quietly—and the man to whom he spoke never forgot his eyes—"I’m going to enlist. I’m going back to my home place. I’d like to start with the boys from there." So Tom went back to Point of Pines. He almost forgot that he was the husband of Donelle Langley. He had taken farewell of many, many things without realizing it: his own fear, his wife, his roads, his hope of Donelle. He went back very simply, very quietly, and with that new look in his sad young eyes he seemed like a stranger. Not for him was the glory and the excitement. He was going because he dared not stay. His soul was reaching out to an ideal that was screened in mystery, he had only just courage enough to press on. Pierre looked at his boy pleadingly. "Tom," he whimpered, "I’m not much of a father. I can’t send you off feeling proud of me, I’ve held you back all your life. But I can make you feel easier about me by telling you that I’ve got work. You won’t have to fash yourself about that." Tom regarded his father with a vague sense of gladness; then he reached out falteringly and took his hand! Marcel drew Tom to her heart. All her motherhood was up in arms. "Tom," she whispered, "all through the years I’ve broken my heart over those little graves on the hill, but to-day I thank God they’re there!" Tom held the weeping woman close. "Aunt Marcel," he asked quietly, "if they, the children, were here, instead of on the hill, would you bid them stay?" "That’s it, Tom, I couldn’t, and that’s why I thank God He’s taken the choice from me." Tom kissed her reverently with a mighty tenderness. "Aunt Marcel," he went on, "when I’m over there I shall think of you and of the children on the hill. I’ll try and do my best for you and them. I may fail, but I’ll try." And at last Tom went up the road to Mam’selle and Donelle. They saw him coming and met him on the way. Jo’s head was bent; her breast heaving. A terrible fear and bitterness made her face hard and almost cruel. All night she had been recalling Tom’s pitiful youth. And now this renunciation! But on Donelle’s face shone the glory of the day. Quietly, firmly she took Tom’s hands and lifted her eyes.