"I’m going to have him moved from the hospital to my studio. I’ve got plenty of room and he’d like it there." "Yes, have him moved, have him moved." Donelle said the words over as if learning a lesson. She was trying to visualize the helpless man. "As for you, little girl, I’m going to send you to Revelle. He’s waiting for you. I telegraphed from Quebec. There’s a nice young body keeping house for him, a Mary Walden, who once mistook love of art _for_ art. She got saved and is now making a kind of home for—well, people like you and old Revelle. She’s found her heaven in doing this and you’ll be safe and happy with her until you can come to Norval." "Yes. Quite safe and happy, Man-Andy." And through the days that followed Donelle made no complaint; no demands. She kept near Revelle; listened to his music with yearning memories; grew to love Mary Walden, who watched over her like a kind and wise sister. Law came daily with his happy reports. Norval was gaining fast; had been overjoyed at the change from hospital to the studio; had borne the moving splendidly. But still there was no mention of Donelle going to him, and the girl asked no questions. At last Law was driven into the open. He was in despair. He’d got Norval to the studio, but there he seemed to find himself up against a wall. He took Donelle into his confidence. "Perhaps if we could get him to Point of Pines," she suggested, her own longing and homesickness adding force to the words. The noise and unrest of the city were all but killing her. "No," Law shook his head. "I touched on that but he said he’d be hanged, or something to that effect, if he’d be carried like a funeral cortege to Point of Pines." "Doesn’t he ever speak of me?" The question was heavy with heartache and longing. "No, and I wonder if you can get any happiness out of that? You ought to." The deep eyes were raised to Law’s. "Yes. I see what you mean," Donelle smiled. Then: "Man-Andy, there are times when I think I must go to him. Fling everything aside and say ’here I am!’" "There are times when I’ve wished to God you could, Donelle, but I asked the doctor and he said a shock would be a bad thing. No, we must wait." Then he turned to Mary Walden, who was quietly sewing by the window. The plain, comfortable little woman was like a nerve tonic. "Mary," he said, "I’m going to ask you to do something for me." "Yes, Mr. Law." The voice in itself restored poise to the poiseless. "I’m tuckered out, I want you to come for two or three hours each day and read to Norval. My voice gets raspy and he absorbs books like a sponge. Besides, I want to paint. I’ve got an idea on my chest. Revelle can take care of Donelle while you are with me." And then, so suddenly that Law fell back before the onslaught, Donelle rushed to him. "Why can’t I go?" she demanded. No other word could describe the look and tone. "He could not see me!"