But Tom went away, smiling, with the little company of Point of Pines’ men. The women watched the going with still faces and folded hands. Those boys going on, on to what, they knew not; just going! Some looked self-centred, proud, senselessly uplifted. Others looked grim, not knowing all, but sensing it. Tom looked at his group, his father, Marcel, Longville, Jo, and Donelle, turned a last glance at the white, set face of Father Mantelle, and so said good-bye to Point of Pines. Together Jo and Donelle returned to the little white house. It was like going back from a freshly made grave. "I’ll not help the bad business, no, not I!" vowed Mam’selle, the hard look still upon her face. Donelle looked piteously at her. "It is a great evil, a damnable sin; no words can make it right. For us to work and forgive is but to help the sin along. I will not stand for the cursed wrong." "Mamsey, it is all wrong, but it is not their wrong, Tom’s and all the other boys. They are just doing what they have to: holding to that something that won’t let go of us. Mamsey, we must go along with them. We cannot leave them alone. I don’t quite see yet what we can do, but Mamsey, we, too, must hold on. See, here is the loom. Spin, spin, dear Mamsey." "No, the loom stands still!" Jo shut her lips. But Donelle led her forward. "Mamsey, it will save us," she said, "save us. We must work all the time; spin, weave, knit. We’ve got to. It is all we can do." "Yes. And because we have always spun and woven and knitted, they are going off there, those boys! Donelle, I will not touch the loom!" But Donelle was placing her fingers on the frame. Suddenly, groping for the threads, Jo said, while her voice broke: "Where’s Nick, child?" "He’s following Tom as far as he can, Mamsey. I did not call him back." At that Jo bent her head until it rested on the loom. "That’s all dogs and women can do!" she moaned; "follow them as far as they can." "Yes, Mamsey, and catch up with them—somehow. We will, we will." The two women clung together and wept until only grief was left, the bitterness melted. And afar in Egypt Anderson Law heard the summons and saw the blackening cloud. "I’m too old to take a gun," he muttered grimly, "but my place is home! Every man to his hearth, now, unless he can serve his neighbour." It was October when Law reached New York. In his long-deserted studio lay much that claimed his immediate attention. Norval had had a key to the apartment and had seen that it was kept ready for its absent master. A mass of mail lay upon the table, among it a note from Norval himself.