"For life. So many, Mam’selle, simply get ready to live. Life is going to use this little Donelle." "Men have caused a deal of trouble for women," Jo remarked irrelevantly. "Ah! there you have us, Mam’selle. The best of us know that we’re bad bunglers. Most of us, in our souls, are begging your pardon." "Well, you’re all boys, mere children." Jo was clicking her needles like mad. "Sometimes I think it would settle the whole question if we could bunch all the men in one man and give him a good spanking." Law’s eyes twinkled. "And after that, after the spanking, Mam’selle, what would you do?" "Give him an extra dose of jam, like as not. We’re fools, every last one of us, God help us!" "Yes, thank God, you are!" It was March when a letter came from Norval that sent Law to the wood-cabin and to his knees. ANDY: It’s over! Poor Katherine! I’m going to leave her body here under the snow and the pines. It came quite suddenly at the last. She just could not stand it. I’m glad I went the rest of the way with her. I never could have done it except that you showed me the path. You’ve been here with me close, old friend, all these months. I wonder if you can understand me when I say that I am glad for Katherine, for her alone, that she is safe under the snow? It is easier to think of her so, than to remember the losing battle she waged for her health. I’m sure my being here made her less lonely, and she grew so tender and generous, so understanding. She begged me to return to Point of Pines. She never knew about Gavot. And now, Andy, before you get this, I will be on my way over-seas to offer what I have to France. I’m strong, well, and have nothing to hold me back. I can do something there, I’m sure. Law looked at the date on the letter, then noticed that the postmark was nearly a month later. There was no need to hurry back; Norval was gone. Law did not tell Donelle or Jo of his news. Everything was being tossed into the seething pot; the outcome must be awaited with patience and whatever courage one could muster. When spring came the little _River Queen_ came regularly to the dock. She came quietly, reverently, bearing now her children home: the sick, the tired, the hopelessly maimed, the boys who had borne the brunt of battle and had escaped with enough mind and body to come back. Some of them had news of others; they had details that waiting hearts craved. Under the soft skies of spring they told their brave stories so simply; oh! so divinely simply. The bravado, the jest were stilled; they had seen and suffered too much to dwell upon glory or upon the tales of adventure. Poor old Pierre went from one to another with his question: "Tell me about my Tom." Tom had been transferred here, there, and everywhere. Only an occasional comrade who had left home with him had been near him overseas. But one or two had stories about Tom that soon became public property.